


Beneath the Hard World

by lordnelson100



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Escape, F/F, F/M, Fairy Tale Curses, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Imprisonment, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, Lothlórien, M/M, Magical Accidents, Moria | Khazad-dûm, Original Character(s), Recovery, dwarrowdams, f/f Female OCs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-03-26 15:49:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13860972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordnelson100/pseuds/lordnelson100
Summary: In an alternate universe, Legolas and Gimli meet as captives of Saruman after an expedition to Moria goes horribly wrong.With nothing left to lose, one elf and forty dwarves stage a rebellion, seeking freedom—  or death. But if they live long enough to escape, things are going to get complicated in the world above.(Complete)





	1. Captivity

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: story turns on off-stage sexual assault. If this is not your thing, turn back now. Darker than this author's previous LOTR stories. See end notes for additional context.

He awoke. A strange room. He’d been dumped on his back on something hard and wooden (bench? low table?), with his hands bound behind him. Sore all over. Still naked. Cold. Filthy. Maybe it would have been better to stay unconscious.

The room was dim; there was a weak fire in a crude hearth, a low ceiling, rough hewn stone walls, which were windowless. Still underground, it looked like. A heavy wooden door. Someone had draped a ragged cloak across his waist.

And a dwarf was staring at him with a furrowed brow; he was seated on a low stool in a corner, hands on his knees.   

“What are you doing here?” the dwarf asked.

“Here, where?”

“Here in my room.”

His throat was dry. The corner of his mouth was very sore.  He tried to get out his answer in the simplest words possible.

“I don’t know who you are, or where this room is—  the last thing I was awake for, Saruman and his people were . . . hurting me to get me to tell them things. And I suppose— ”

There was a silence. The dwarf didn’t offer anything.

“I suppose they thought you’d carry on.”

“Carry on hurting you.” The dwarf had a particularly stoic, unreadable face.  Thick red beard. Dark eyes. Wild hair tied back in a rough queue. His voice was flat.  “Do you think I am so without honor that I would assault a helpless captive?”

“Dwarves and Elves do hate each other, traditionally.” Legolas threw back his head a little; tried for irony and indifference; heard it fall flat. “But what do I know?  Saruman is _mad_. In case you haven’t noticed.”

Sudden horrible memories roiled up in the elf. Helpless ones: the wizard’s gaunt face and repellent, heartless gaze; the huge, strong bodies of orcs, their greedy touch, their salty scent. He stopped talking and closed his eyes.

He was shocked to feel the touch of a hand on the side of his face. When he opened his eyes, the dwarf was standing next to him with a dipper of water, bringing it to his mouth. He drank it, spilling half of it down his chin.

Then the dwarf had a wet rag in his hand; he showed it to Legolas before he did anything, so Legolas only flinched a little when the other man began wiping his face clean.

“What are you doing?” he asked. His own voice sounded strange to him: weak and hoarse.

“You’re all over blood.” 

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t like looking at it.”

There was another long and awkward silence. Legolas felt something awful and warm and painful in this throat and his chest. It tasted of weeping. He fought it back. He reminded himself that he had important things to do. Reasons why he was here.

He sat up. It felt like something very hard to do. It was terribly awkward with his arms still bound behind him.

“You’re one of the captives from Erebor, the ones who are being forced to work the mines for Saruman?”

The dwarf stared at him with a flat expression. He didn’t deny it.

“You must listen to me. I was sent to find you. I have news to tell you!” He struggled with his next sentences. It was all so urgent. It was all so awful. “It’s . . .  It’s bad news, I’m afraid, but you must hear it. Mithrandir sent me: the wizard men call Gandalf.”

“I know who he is,” said the other. There was a flicker of impatience in his stony face.

“He told us what’s happened. The expedition from the Lonely Mountain to Moria: that you were captured,  that Saruman is making you work the mine for him, because his own Orcs and wild tribesmen don’t have the skills to go into the deep and difficult places.”

Legolas paused and waited for some response. Getting none, he struggled on. “We know he used hostages from among your people to force the rest of you to labor for him. He wants to reach something, something really deep, that requires precision to find. He’s told you it’s a hidden reserve of mithril. Just as your ancestors were after before the Fall of Khazâd-dum.”

He leaned forward. “But it isn’t. It isn’t mithril at all. It’s a weapon! A living one, or at least, a creature. It’s the most dangerous thing there is. _There’s a Balrog from the Elder Days down there_! Do you know what that is?”

The dwarf was standing now, with his fist clenched. He was staring at the floor with burning eyes. _He looks sick to his stomach_ , Legolas thought, _but not as shocked as I expected_. After a long moment, the dwarf nodded. “ _Amrad ursu_. The Death Fire. Durin’s Bane.” He began to pace back and forth across the small room, hands behind his back. His dark eyes were scanning from side to side, as if with racing thoughts.

And now came more difficult words for Legolas to say. He could taste them in his mouth before he said them, sour and sad.  “And Saruman . . . Saruman is deceiving you about the hostages. He hasn’t let you see them face to face for some time, has he? He’s using a spell to make you hear their voices, but—but they’re already dead.”

The firelight traced an outline of red-gold along the other man’s face: his fierce brow, his ragged red beard. He gave the elf a hard look. His voice was thick and low. “How do you know this?”

“I saw them. I, we, we were sent to try to warn you all. But when we got into the chamber where they were rumored to be, they were dead. They were all dead.”

Legolas met his eyes, and saw a suspicion, still—perhaps a hope—that he was lying. He went on, unwillingly. “I saw the old councilor, the one with the white beard who was always with King Thorin. And the little scribe: he who was with Thorin’s company when they came to our forest. And some younger ones I didn’t know, one with ink drawings like a river on his arms, a brown-haired one with red beads in his beard-—and others. I counted ten bodies in all.” 

“Enough.” The dwarf had turned away. He walked to the little, crude hearth with its tiny coal fire, and put one hand to the mantel. His head was bowed, and Legolas thought his shoulders were shaking. His own throat felt tight. He saw in his mind again the poor, small battered bodies, the blood; he closed his eyes once more.

Suddenly, the dwarf was speaking to him again, without turning towards him. “You keep saying _we_. Who were you with? How did you come here?”

“Mithrandir was leading the way, and my friend was with us: the Captain of our Woodland Guard. We never intended to fight Saruman out in the open, the hope was to steal in secretly and find you all.”

The dwarf was looking at him with clear disbelief. “Three of you. You’re telling me the Woodland King let _his son_ go forth on a dangerous mission to Moria—under the eyes of Saruman—with only Gandalf and one warrior by this side? To help us, an expedition of Dwarves?”

“You know who I am?” said Legolas. He looked away. Of course many of the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain would recognize him by sight; from visits to Dale with his father’s Guard, or from the year they took Erebor back. It shouldn’t have mattered. Somehow it did. That someone who knew who he was had seen him stripped like this, and despoiled.  

But he needed to go on; so he did.

“It was we three alone, because when Mithrandir came to us with his news, my father didn’t believe him. At least—he mistrusted. He thought perhaps you Naugrim were in league with Saruman, helping him for some purpose of your own. You know he fought with your King, warned Thorin not to send the expedition to Moria at all. So he didn’t-—he wouldn’t risk getting involved. But Mithrandir would go to your aid anyway.”

“So why did _you_ come?”

“Because Gandalf was right!” Legolas shouted. His throat hurt again, but he couldn’t stay the ache that was flowing in his chest, in his head. “The Balrog is a greater danger than anything we have ever seen, even the dragon. If the stories are true, if Saruman can let it loose and direct it against our peoples. Don’t you see, _both_ our kingdoms are in terrible peril!”

He looked the dwarf in the eye. “They say Thorin is readying an army, that he is preparing to march against Saruman. If he does, and the wizard has Durin’s Bane, he will wipe your people from the earth. And then come for mine.”

“And Thorin wouldn’t listen to Gandalf, either.” Legolas shook his head miserably.  “Because he’s determined to march here with the whole army of Erebor, straight into . . . _gods above_!”

The dwarf was tugging at his beard now. A nervous habit, maybe; he didn’t look conscious of it. He was lost in thought, but suddenly raised his glance to the elf’s face. “What happened, then? To your foolhardy errand to us?”

“ _He_ knew. He found us. We fought, the two wizards battled—there was light, and great flashes of power, but Saruman had the best of it. I think Gandalf got away, but my friend and I, we were pulled apart in the fighting and she —I think she’s dead. I hope she’s dead and not . . .” He couldn’t go on.

“I’m sorry,” the other man stilled.  “That Captain. She’s the one with the long red hair?”

Legolas nodded, and said, with difficulty: “Tauriel.”

And the dwarf asked, in a low voice, “Did she come because of Kíli? Because of my cousin?”  

“The little archer. They,” said Legolas, “are friends, she says. Said.”

 Whatever the dwarf was saying in his own tongue sounded sorrowful and frustrated at once.

He turned once more and coming to Legolas’ side, he knelt down. He set his hand on the Elf’s chest. His hand was strong and broad, the knuckles battered by work and warfare. Warm. 

“I’m going to ask you one more question. And if you don’t like to answer, you can tell me to fuck off.  I’ve heard it said-—they say that an Elf can’t be ravished. That if you’re attacked like that, you—just end it, and fuck off over the ocean to that great green heaven of yours far away.”

“No.” _This was bad. This was the worst. If he looked at the ceiling, if he didn’t look at the other’s face, he could answer. Only then._ If he wasn’t looking at the pity in his eyes. He was suddenly very aware that he was naked except for the old cloak laid over him. This one’s cloak, no doubt. 

“We’re—we’re made like other people. We’re stronger and live longer and other things, but our bodies are not so different. Sometimes one of us does pass away from unhappiness, of suffering. It’s said to be a gift from the Powers, that the soul can be released from the body in such a case. But it’s usually after the fact, the suffering. You can’t just _will_ yourself to release your spirit in the moment. At least, I couldn’t.” He swallowed.

“Then that sounds like a shitty sort of gift from the gods. That you’re only free to die of sorrow, after. I am sorry for it.” The dwarf’s voice was low, very kind. One wouldn’t have expected a voice like that from someone like him. 

Legolas struggled, trying to make himself haughty and hardened again. Trying to bring coldness back to his face, to put a proud tone in his voice. “Why should it trouble _you_?”

The other moved his hand away. “Maybe,” the dwarf said, with a wall going down over his own expression. “I just want a complete catalogue of Saruman’s crimes, for when I kill the filthy bastard.”

He stood and said: “Turn on your side. I’ll untie your hands. I’m warning you not to do anything stupid.”

Legolas wheezed a half-laugh. “I’m flattered you should be timid of me, in this condition. How you must fear the Elves.”

The dwarf raised an eyebrow. “If you try it on, I’m going to have to punch you in the face. And you don’t look like you could stand it very well at the moment.”

When the bonds were loosed, Legolas brought his arms in front of him and crossed them protectively across his chest.  They ached horribly. The dwarf exclaimed when he saw Legolas’ right wrist clearly: it was bloody and circled by a ring of precise cuts, like runes or letters carved into the skin. He reached toward the elf’s arm, perhaps to look more closely. But when Legolas flinched again, he drew his hand back. 

“What _is_ that?” he demanded. 

“How should I know? The wizard did it, while they were putting me to torment. He didn’t say _why_.”

Quietly, the dwarf held up his own right arm, and removed a battered leather bracer around the wrist. The same marks, half-healed into lines of brown scar. They looked at each other with confusion. The dwarf muttered:  “He did this to me months ago. Still haven’t the damnedest idea what for. Can’t be good, can it?”

All at once the smaller man stood fully, and went to the door of the room; he put his hand to it, and spoke without turning his head. “I’m going to send one of my folks to you. To look after you. I have things I must do now. We will speak again later.”

“Gimli,” said Legolas quietly, “Thank you.”

“It is I who owe you thanks on our behalf,” he returned. “But I did not give you any name.”

The elf pointed to his ear. “Elvish hearing. Your people have been coming and going in the hall for quite a while, saying ‘what is Gimli doing in there?’”

Gimli whuffed out a grim sound of amusement.  “Legolas, son of Thranduil, I am at your service.”

 He closed the door behind him.

 

#

 Some while later, another dwarf entered the room and gently closed the door.  

Sturdy-looking arms, sleeves rolled up, carrying a basin with steam rising from it and a basket on one arm, a canvas apron and—oh! She was a _she_ ,  just decipherable from a slight curve to her working jacket above her sturdy waist, and (now that the Elf was looking closely) the soft scantiness of her beard, which was woven into tiny, trim braids joined into even bunches by carved beads. The first dwarrowdam he’d ever met, or at least, that he’d been aware of.  

Dwarves so often layered themselves with hoods or helms, cloaks or armor. He’d heard it said that they found it comical that the elves could not tell their genders. But he’d also heard they were secretive of such things through self-protection. They did not trust the Elves or Men or any but other dwarves. “They are friends to none but themselves,” his father said.

This dwarf looked kindly enough; she had olive skin and her hair was glossy black, with threads of white just starting. She looked hale, but more weather-worn than Gimli.

She came to his side and drew the stool and small table near. “Hello then, Master Elf.  I’m Nin. Our friend said you’d had a bad time of it and needed some looking after. Now despite my fair face, I’ve been mending the hurts of busted-up miners and warriors for more years than there are feathers on a hen, and there’s nothing much I haven’t seen before. Will you let me tend to you, dearie?”

There was delicacy woven into her cheery words; he bowed his head, and nodded, not trusting himself to speak, at first. He did not wish to weep. 

“They give us naught but the most basic supplies, the filthy brigands,” she said, as she set out some things on the table. Warm water, cloths, scissors, a dark bottle with a pungent scent.  “But they need to keep us working, so I manage to wring just enough out of them to get by. I can set you right a bit, with these.”

 She began to clean his brow; there had been a blow that split his scalp and sent blood down the side of his face. She needed to pull back his hair to begin, and she wet it and cleaned gore away as she went. It felt so strange to have her strong hands, Dwarven hands, touch him there.

 When he felt his voice might be steady, he ventured, “You are a healer by craft?”

“In a simple way, my dear,” Nin answered. “A workaday healer; I mostly hire out to go with mining parties or builder’s teams, those that go journeying to the Blue Mountains or the Iron Hills. This expedition was meant to survey, you know, not be a war party.  No learned scholar, me; but I can walk as many miles in the day as any, and I’m valued as much for that as for my good hands.”

She did have good hands. By now she had worked her way downwards. There were great bruises on his upper arms and some scratches, for the orcs had claws. There was a bite-mark on his shoulder, over his collarbone: she cleaned them with something that stung, then cooled.

She set to cleaning the cuts on his wrist, _tsking_ at the seeming senselessness of the damage, and wrapped a clean bandage around it.

 As she worked she explained how the Erebor company were kept: that Saruman and his whip-wielders were used to driving slaves, not just prisoners. They had locked off a series of chambers for the dwarves to sleep and eat in. They were well-guarded, outside, but could move about within. Not out of kindness. Their captors brought basic necessities, but the dwarves were expected to cook and clean for themselves and mend their own tools, in between the hours when they were driven down to work the mines. 

“Takes advantage of our own nature, he does,” said Nin. “Knows it drives Dwarves mad to sit in filth or disorder, and so we organize ourselves and keep things together, like—but what’s if for, I ask myself. Just to serve him better, for longer?”

“At least you are keeping yourselves in good order, not in weakness or in despair—if there should be a chance for escape!” said Legolas.

“Aye, so we told ourselves at first,” Nin replied. “But now—” She let the thought trail off.

She made to move aside the old cloak that covered him from waist to knee; almost without meaning too, he shot out his hand and prevented her. She waited, patiently, till he released her wrist.

 “Well then, my dear. I’ve managed to wrangle some clothing for you to get into. Not much more than slave’s rags, I’m afraid. But they have human prisoners here, too; these should be more your size, and they are washed, at least. But we should clean you up, best we can, first—should we not?” 

He took a breath and leaned back, and let his hands fall to his sides.  “Now Legolas—do I say the name right, friend?—I’ll go on with it. Lie still, dear heart, this won’t be long at all.”

And she cleaned up his stomach and his thighs and his parts, cleaned away the stickiness and mess, bandaged a deep cut on the inside of his leg, and then she got him into the clean clothes she’d brought. It didn’t take long, as she’d said. She made him drink more water and gave him some plain bread, and said, “Why don’t you rest now, for a while?” And she laid a gentle hand on his forehead for a long moment, and then went out. 

#

 He awoke. Some hours had passed, it seemed. He felt, if not refreshed, at least less wrecked. It had been true sleep, not reverie; he was glad, for he wanted no vivid memories before his mind’s eye. His body must have been truly exhausted. He stretched and found that he was sore and empty and sick, but able to rise; so he did.

He got up and went to sit by the hearth. He had no idea what hour of what day it was. All this time underground, with no windows, and hours of pain and fear, had utterly upset his measuring of time. Nearby he could hear the deep voices of Dwarves. He did not try the door; he thought it would be locked.

 And truth to tell, he found himself wanting to believe that Gimli would return, as he said. He himself had been so utterly focussed on delivering his message—on the only thing that seemed to have the power to make all this disaster into something meaningful—that he had not thought beyond. Now what?

There was a sound at the door. Gimli entered without greeting and came and sat down on the hearth-stones, next to Legolas. He sighed and looked down at the floor for a moment. Legolas waited.

Gimli made that half-unconscious motion again: tugged at his beard, frowned. When he looked up, his dark brown eyes were full of some deep emotion; his brow furrowed and jaw set. His face was a picture of resolve. But there was something in there for Legolas, too: it might have been sympathy, or regret.

“Right. I will tell you where things stand with us. The news you brought us: it wasn’t unexpected. Except for you, and the rescue attempt. That we did not guess at. If only Gandalf had won through to us, if your Tauriel . . . well. Too late for that now.”

He leaned forward, with a hand on each knee.  “Long have we guessed that this wizard spoke nothing but lies to us. A deep and untouched vein of mithril, he claims to seek. Yet there is darkness in his eyes when he speaks of it— yay, and fear, or I am no Dwarf. In the stone itself down here, we feel it:  a wrongness, a foulness. Some dark enchanted treasure out of the Dark Years, I supposed. We knew we must  find a way to break his hold on us, before we reached the thing he seeks.

“But the hostages: they were our kin, our friends. We well-knew he was deceiving us there, too, though not how. Hiding their faces, only letting us talk through a door.  And the words weren’t right, weren’t quite _them,_ even if the voices were theirs. We thought they'd been drugged, or ensorcelled. The things he’d done to them in the beginning,  to make us mind, were—” 

The dwarf turned his head away, his expression bleak. Legolas, to his own surprise, reached out to him. He put his hand lightly on the other’s knee and pressed; then took it away again. Gimli gave him a swift, astonished glance. Then he seemed to gather himself.

“It little matters now,” he continued. “You should know, elf lord, that this rash mission of yours has made a difference to us even in the failing. For you have let us know certain answers—-grim truths we only suspected. This news of Durin’s Bane is even worse than what we guessed. Yet it confirms what my heart already told me. We can wait no longer.” 

“You have a plan.” It was visible in his every tense gesture. 

“We do.” The low firelight left much of the room cast in shadow. Quiet, steady sounds  were coming from outside the room, as of people gathering someplace not far away.  

Here was this dwarf, only a prisoner, sitting before him in ragged shirt half open at the neck, with stone-dust on his trousers and flowing, unkempt red-brown hair, messily braided into a thick queue; his rough hand gathering into a fist. Yet there was an unexpected power to him, a stoic resolution. He found himself drawn in, roused to courage. Without evidence, without reason: a leap of faith.

“For some time, we’ve been making weapons. Scavenging picks and hammers and tools, sharpening them into blades. Crude, shitty blades, mind you. Other things we’ve made from wood and stone, even more simple: spears and clubs. Whatever we had to hand.”

The dwarf looked at him steadily, gauging him, it seemed. “Tonight, at a signal, we will rise.”

He gestured sharply, as for a blow. “We’ll go for the guards when they bring us supplies. If we take them, we push on to the next level, and tackle the soldiers there. And the next. As far as we can, making for the surface.”

“You don’t expect to succeed.” Legolas said it calmly.

“Succeed?  It is not likely. But we will get as far as we may. We have all agreed to the same orders. Fight till we die. No one is to be taken alive. No prisoners among us at all. If need be—help your neighbor die well. So that no one among us is left in _their_ hands.”

He stood up, then, looking away at something Legolas couldn’t see: some image in his mind. Then his gaze snapped back to the elf.

“I can’t guarantee we’ll change anything. That we can stop Saruman from getting what he’s digging for, or save our peoples from that _thing_ down there. Let alone end him and make him pay, as he deserves. But we can make sure we’re not one of his weapons anymore.”

Quietly, Legolas reached up a hand to him. Gimli took it, and helped him stand. He held onto Legolas’s hand, after.

“You needn’t come with us. But if you do, the rules must be the same. Fight or die.” Gimli did not break his gaze as he said this: hard words, but he would not turn away from them.

“Do you think,” Legolas said, “That I would remain here, to be the surviving prisoner left alive after a rebellion? “

“I suppose not. Still, it’s—it’s not what you deserve, after what you suffered for trying to do the brave thing.”

“This is not what you and your people deserve, either. I will go with you,” Legolas said. “Put a weapon in my hand and I will wield it. And if there are not weapons enough, I will pick up stones and throw them. I will fight and die with you and yours.”

Gimli said gruffly, “I thought to offer you—well, a blade to end things yourself, if you chose.”

“No,” Legolas found he could speak calmly of this, to his surprise. “I will not do his dirty work for him. Let Saruman and his servants slay me, if they can. I will endeavor to take a few with me.”

The dwarf clasped his hand, a warm pressure, and the elf returned it.

“There is another problem. One I may not conceal from you,”  he looked up into his face. “Some of my people think you must be a spy. That Saruman suspects the hour of our rebellion is at hand, or else how have you come here? Why did he leave you in my chamber, while I worked? Is it some plot, these marks he made on us both?”

The elf found himself wondering, hesitating:  “Perhaps he was merely baiting us, thinking you and I would fall to suspicion and tearing at one another like orcs. Our peoples, our Kings, have acted badly enough towards one another.” 

“Aye, but what if the foul marks signify some sort of spell? Some means to bring us down, or turn us against our own side?”

Legolas nodded; he saw why they would doubt.

Gimli released his hand with a sigh. “Therefore, I have told my people this: they must not hesitate. If they think they see me used by the enemy,  if they see any sign of dark magics, of me turning against them, they must cut me down.” He paused.  “And I have told them the same goes for you.  Are you still willing to stand among a pack of vengeful Dwarves with weapons in their hands?”

“It would be a death less terrible,” said the elf simply. “Then some I have seen here. Let us go.”

 

# 

Up next week: Chapter 2: "Rebellion"


	2. Rebellion

A few torches lit the rough hall of the captives, throwing their shadows against its shabby walls. No hint of the lost glories of Khazâd-dum remained here in its deep mines: there was only the dark, and these few last descendents of its one-time rulers, huddled now with low voices and fast-beating hearts.

Gathered in a low room was the whole of the captured expedition: four and forty Dwarves with ferocity and purpose written in their brow. Some held crude blades, swords of a basic sort, fashioned from picks and spades and the stolen parts of mining tools. Others had spears and pikes with a longer reach, whose sharpened heads were cut from scrap iron. Some made do with cudgels of wood capped with stone heads or metal spikes. Little enough defense against an army of captors with a wizard behind them. But with everyone armed, the enemy would have no excuse not to fight them each to the end.

Hadn’t he used to think that all Dwarrow looked alike—that their faces were expressionless? Legolas had been taught so, certainly. But now he saw differently. In the flickering torchlight, the dwarves’ eyes glittered fiercely: but here, one put a comforting arm on a comrade; there, another looked in a friend’s eyes with the rueful air of those who face an oncoming storm far from shelter.

The Khazâd were known for their stone-hard strength and love of arms, but this Moria-mission had not gone out as a war battalion. Some had come as miners, ore-experts, architects or record-keepers. There was the weathered healer, Nin: she did not look very happy with a club in her hand, but she smiled at something a big dwarf next to her muttered. Another she-Dwarf, it seemed, this one with war-like tattoos on her forehead and a great stone-breaking hammer in her arms. Legolas spared a moment to hope she would look after her more peaceable friend.

As he glanced around the gathered circle, his eye found another countenance he knew, younger than the other dwarves. Guileless eyes, a jaunty little beard, and loose black hair gave his face a careless, romantic look: Kíli, nephew of King Thorin. Friend of Legolas’s friend. Dearer even than friend to Tauriel, if he read the signs correctly. Strange it had seemed to him, and now sorrowful as well. Across the crowd their eyes met and Kíli gave Legolas a look that was half grieving, half bewildered. Gimli had broken the dark news to his young kinsman, it seemed: but maybe Kíli’s heart resisted it. His own still did. 

The group was quietly murmuring, but they fell silent as their leader began to speak. 

“Durin’s folk,” said Gimli. He spoke low, but intently.  “Brothers and sisters, _udâmai_!  We know what is before us. Prisoners the traitor Saruman held us, but no more! The bodies of our friends, our kin, lie dishonored in his chains. They are beyond our protection— and beyond his torments, as well. Shall we sit in our pens, till his servants come to whip us to his dirty work, when he readies a monstrous foe to send against our homeland?”

 A long low growl of defiance came from them all.

“To freedom or to our fall, we shall fight our way. Slain we may be, but faithless, never!”

“ _Du Bekar_!” “For Erebor!” Their reply was low, a soft chant. It wanted a few minutes until the guards would come at sundown.

“What about _him_?” said a voice, and several more echoed it. Legolas looked to Gimli, who nodded to him to speak. Though he scarcely knew what he would say, he began.

“You know me, some of you: I am Legolas of Mirkwood. I came here with my friends in hopes of of outwitting Saruman to protect my people. And in hopes of helping you, as well, if it were possible. But I failed,”  his voice almost broke. With force of will, he held on and steadied it. “I was captured, like you. Then the traitor Saruman threw me among you stripped and beaten, thinking you would tear at me like wild beasts.”

There were cries of anger and of sorrow. More than one face looked at him with pity, even if some still glowered.

“For what does he know of your people’s honor, or mine?  My friends are gone, and I was able only to deliver to you the news of the White Wizard’’s full evil. I wish it had been better aid. But if,” he continued, “if you will have me, I will follow Gimli and rise with you. Let no one say this Elf of the Forest Realm would not stand against evil while he could!”

At his side, Gimli give him that warm, solemn look of sympathy again: he remembered his voice saying, “ _you deserved better_.”  How strange, that a sturdy Dwarven fighter should help him find his courage when it burnt low this terrible day. If there had been time enough,  this one might have come to be his friend. How unexpected, to die in the company of dwarves. Unexpected, yet it would do. 

“For Tauriel!” he cried aloud, and he heard Kíli echo him, as the rest gathered to their positions by the doors of the prison and the hour arrived. 

“ _Khazâd ai-Menu_! The Dwarves are upon you!”

 

#

The guards reacted with utter shock, for the dwarves had been their prisoners for months; and they had convinced themselves it would always be so, like cowardly oppressors everywhere. 

Forty and more armed Khazâd, their arms corded with muscle from mining, their hearts filled with rage and vengeance, would have been a threat to warriors of worth, even with the crudity of their weapons. However, their foes were _not_ such resolute warriors: only guards made lazy through wielding the lash against prisoners.

Legolas found himself in hand-to-hand struggle with a large orc soldier, who snarled at him through yellowed fangs. The poor quality of the home-made blade he’d been given was quickly evident. He was used to fighting with Elven knives of exceptional keenness, but when he instinctively tried to stab through the guard’s breast, the foe’s cheap studded jerkin was enough to turn the blow. But his strength, even in his current battered state, was still that of the Eldar. As the other thrust a dagger at his heart, he caught hold and wrenched it upward, drawing a scream from the orc. And then his own crude blade _was_ good enough for its task, for he put it through his opponent’s vulnerable throat.

He turned and saw that the Dwarves, howling with rage, were thrusting through the last of the guards in the hall already. Kíli, his long dark hair flying, dragged down a much larger foe by the neck. Gimli crouched over a downed guard and pushed a blade through its eye, a grim sight. All around him fists and weapons were making quick work. Even the healer Nin, her club in her raised hand, was swinging away.

Gimli shouted an order and they all gathered at the far end of the guard hall.  Even with the aid of surprise, the results seemed astonishing: this first set of foes had all fallen, but no dwarf was seriously wounded. They listened; no outcry was raised from beyond the doors. Was it possible the alarm had not spread to the rest of Saruman’s people?  Surely, some strange luck was with them. Legolas felt an unfamiliar giddy energy flowing through him.

Several of their party were able to cast aside their crude homemade tools for better swords scavenged from the slain orcs; they acquired some shields as well. 

“Right,” said Gimli, wiping away a foe’s blood from his face. “Next! Sons of Durin, ready yourself!”

 

#

Now they hurried up a long, slanting corridor that began to show signs of the once-lovely realm that had flourished here long ago. Columns were wound about with intricate carven patterns, much broken and defaced; shapely arches joined each turn, though great bites of stonework had been wrenched away. Light was scarce, for the orcs needed little of it, and clammy damp made the walls glisten. Yet Legolas glimpsed here and there traces of ancient art,  of a place once brilliantly crafted with cunning art: a beauty violated and beaten into ugliness, perhaps, but lingering in the shadows.

At the next level, they burst into upon a new horde of foes: a squad of better-armed soldiers this time, not just complacent guards. Still,  it seemed as if all this lot’s attention had been fixed on their next raid to the upper world, not downwards towards the mines and prisoners. Their arms and armor were scattered and they, too, were taken by surprise and rallied poorly.

The Dwarves stuck close to one another, fighting shoulder to shoulder. Their spirits were aflame from their first victory and now more of them had good weapons, so they killed more swiftly.

Two of the dwarves were slain while the fight rolled on.  Grief marked the grim faces of the survivors; grief for these fresh losses, added to the murdered hostages; sorrow and fury at having to leave their bodies unburied and unmourned. Several more had suffered hurts, which were crudely bandaged by Nin. But near forty dwarves were still wielding weapons and behind them, down below, lay piles of their enemies. They seemed hot with a spirit of bold flame, as if weariness could not touch them.

After they cleared the room, Kíli recovered two crude orc-bows and tossed one to Legolas, nodding. They scoured the fallen bodies for quivers and arrows.

Ahead of them loomed a long, narrow bridge across a yawning gulf: they would need to cross it to go upwards again. The next squad of orcs were foolish enough to come charging towards them, instead of waiting for _them_ to cross. Armed with their scavenged arrows, the elf and the Dwarven archer slashed the number of attackers before they even got near. Those that made it through died upon the weapons of the massed dwarves. They took the bridge, hurling several straggling enemies screaming into the chasm below.  

It had been sundown when they began. The night was drawing on; somewhere far above the mines, stars were coming out in the sky above the Misty Mountains. By now they had fought their way three levels above their former prison. Still there had been no organized counterattack from up above. 

The mysterious current of energy that began at the battle’s outset now burnt even warmer in the Elf. His right wrist felt very odd indeed; he tore off the bandage and saw that the runes carved into the tender flesh had a faint glow to them. Shouldering Gimli, he showed it to him wordlessly. Gimli looked down, and peeled off his own wrist bracer: the same. He looked up into Legolas’ eyes, wondering. A moment of strange communion: the Elf felt something like fire start up in his breast,  leaping within. Something shifted in the Dwarven leader’s face as well; dirty with sweat and gore of battle, red with exertion, yet his eyes were alight.

“Well, Sir Elf, it seems this Wizard has done his spellwork shoddily, if he meant to make we two his thralls!”

“So it is, Master Dwarf! Shall we go and chide him? His servants show the way but poorly, we must go and roust him out ourselves it seems!” 

Kili was near enough to see this exchange, and so was another of the Dwarves, a grizzled warrior with iron grey hair who had looked at Legolas skeptically from the start. He and Kili stared at their leader and the Elf, then at each other. For a tense moment, Legolas wondered if they would turn on him, or on both he and Gimli. Instead, the grey veteran merely shook himself like a dog, evidently throwing off his doubts and muttered, “Ho Gimli, ho brothers, ho Master Elf. Are we ready?”  

And so, they fought onwards and upwards.

 

#

That the first level of guards had reacted with shock seemed natural. Their  easy victory over the next round of soldiers they’d put down to luck and their foes’ apparent disorder.

But as  they broke into a new barracks level, the reaction of their enemies to a sudden intrusion of rebel Dwarves had become very obviously _strange_.

The dwarves threw open the doors to this orc-hall with a crash. The orcs scattered about the room—did not react at all!

Two sitting nearest to the door turned, confused: one of them looked right at them. As if suddenly aware of their presence, he screamed, “Dwarves! Bloody fucking dwarves!” He yanked at the soldier next to him, who finally seemed to see them— he too began to shout.  As the first orc rushed at them, rhe big tattoo-covered mason, Vigg, smashed his knees out from under him with her heavy hammer. 

Then, and only then, with the maimed orc screaming and rolling on the ground, did the rest of the orcs react. They jumped to their feet, benches and equipment flying. “What the _fuck_ just happened to Oddbag?” one yelled, as if his kneecaps hadn’t been crushed to a pulp by a dwarf right in front of them. Many of them seemed to be staring every which way, as if for some hidden intruder.   

As several of the dwarves pushed into the room, the nearest orcs howled and pointed and rushed at them, scimitars drawn. Yet the first soldier to reach them, weapon swinging over his head, missed the dwarf he was leaping for completely and brought his his blade down on one of the other orcs, who screamed and stumbled back, clutching his near-severed arm.  His comrades swore at him.

“Narpud, you filthy traitor! Turn on us, will you? I’ll have your guts out!”  snarled one. And immediately attacked his fellow minion, stabbing him (as promised) directly through the gut.

Within moments, the entire hall was in chaos. Many of the orcs were tearing into one another, screaming and cursing, but every few minutes some of them suddenly seemed to realize the Dwarven force were there and rushed in a frenzy to attack them. The dwarves strove eagerly with these foes, but more and more of the orcs seem to fight as if in a fog. Half their attacks landed astray on other orcs. Others stumbled, their wasted blows striking far from their target, smiting the ground or the walls.

“Can they see us, or _not_? This is entirely confusing,” said Kíli. He had his back to the wall and was easily picking off enemies with his bow. An orc standing next to his one of his targets stared at his stricken comrade in shock, as if the arrow sticking in his neighbor came from nowhere.

And yet the cry of “Dwarves! Prisoners! Get them! Sound the alarm!” had gone up a dozen times now. Each time, new soldiers sprang forward to attack them. But each time the dwarves cut the latest wave down, their fellow orcs seemed to forget the presence of intruders all over again and snarled at the new corpses with fresh confusion, or hurled curses of blame on each other.

Wherever Gimli and Legolas made their way in the skirmish, the effect seemed most intense. The runes on their arms glowed brighter. Finally, the chaos burned itself out: there were no more enemies moving in the hall. The entire company had been mowed down either by the dwarves or by each other. 

“Whatever that dragon-fucking wizard did to you and the Elf, Gimli,” said Vigg, “It’s working out for us.”

Nin the healer huddled with the pair of them, examining the still-warm runes on their flesh; but in the end could only look at them with concern. She had no answers. They pressed on: what choice did they have?

#

At last they reached a set of great steel doors, which their reckoning told them must be close to the surface. To their shock,  from above them came the sound of war cries and clashing weapons and what sounded like the thud of an explosion and falling stone.

“Battle!” said Kili.

“Aye, a great big one, from the sound of it,” called one of his mates.

“They’re under attack themselves up there, that’s why they haven’t properly turned on us!” said another. 

Gimli stood still, looking upwards, considering. “All right. Since they’ve bought us a breather, whoever’s up there, let’s search about us while we may. By the sound of it, we’ll be throwing ourselves into a proper storm, when we go up. I want every advantage we can scavenge!” 

They delegated pairs to scout the adjoining halls. It was well they did, for they found a store of water-skins in one hall and in another, with a shout of joy, they discovered an armory: it held both orc weapons and arms of unmistakable Dwarven-make. Horrible to think that these had been taken from the Dwarven people who perished in the fall of Khazâd-dum, or worse, were seized from more recent prisoners. But their hearts rose in fierce pleasure as many found mail for their back, warhammers, _proper_ swords and even, best of all, axes. 

“ _Swords of the Dwarves_ just doesn’t have the same ring to it!” said Kili, with a hint of his old spark, adding a throwing axe to his belt. He and Legolas found a great store of long shafts for their bows as well. With grim satisfaction, Gimli took up a heavy two-headed battle-axe and swung it to test the weight. Legolas also collected a long, slender hand-pick of wicked sharpness: not as familiar as his own elven daggers, but an excellent choice for close-range stabbing.

The company reassembled, arms in readiness. They gulped desperately-needed water from the skins they’d scavenged. A few chanted under their breath in Khuzdul, whether prayers or curses on the enemy, Legolas could not tell. On Gimli’s count, they marched upward to the massive doors. Beyond they could hear the battle, now raging close. Nodding to one another, they thrust the doors open.  

 

#

Before them raged a scene of violence and blood, throwing up an overwhelming wave of noise that momentarily deafened them. Down a broad flight of stairs a vast hall opened up before  them, supported by pillars so lofty that they soared up into darkness: only glimpses of a distant arched ceiling could be made out.

The whole enormous floor of the room was flooded with countless Orcs and the wild tribesmen who followed Saruman.

 _We have met our stopping point at last_ , Legolas thought. 

But then new hope sprung, shocking in its suddenness. There, there, across the great space of the hall and up a steep stair, through a tall arched gateway, was the passage to the outside world. There was escape! There, too, at last, the source of the battle and its clamor.

Standing before the passage to the upper world, halfway down a broad staircase, stood Gandalf. With him, a tall Elven archer with long red hair flying about her as she fought. And all around _them,_ a force of more Elves in dark armor and long green cloaks, which swirled around them as they wielded longbows against the crowding foes. Still others of their host lined the lower steps, battling the enemies with swords and long shields, slicing, bashing; many bodies already lay on the floor. 

The Grey Wizard’s flowing beard pointed this way and that, as he chanted and swept his staff about. Shimmering colored streams of power shot from his hands and staff. Arrows and thrown weapons dissolved into ash ere they came near him and the elves with him. 

“Tauriel!” Cried a voice beside Legolas. “Tauriel!”  Kíli’s face was alight with hope. 

“Keep your guard up, fool!” growled another of the dwarves, throwing a shield in front of the young warrior just in time to block a hurtling spear.

Whether or not she heard him over the din, Legolas saw his friend’s long lovely face turn, just as recognition bloomed. She did not pause in fighting, whirling her long twin blades in a deadly dance. Not for nothing was she Captain of the Woodland Guard. But she fought on with a smile on her lips.  

Joyful relief at the sight of his lost friend rose up in Legolas’s heart: joy, and gratitude to the wizard. Also came amazement at the sight of the Elven strangers who’d come to their rescue. And a flash of sympathy for the young Dwarf at their sides: Kíli had eyes only for the opposite side of the hall, yearning across the space between themselves and their would-be rescuers.

“Gimli, those are Silvan Elves from the Golden Wood! My people’s distant kin! Mithrandir has brought aid!” Legolas cried out joyfully. Beside him, the Dwarf leader nodded, and they shared a brief glance of renewed hope. Then Gimli pointed forward. The runes carved into their arms glowed and ached with a deepening power. Together, they plunged down the steps that separated them from Saruman’s horde and began to carve a path across to their rescuers.

The aura of foe-bewilderment around them now seemed to spread out in even more powerful waves. The wild tribesmen screamed and howled and many turned and tried to flee through the orc ranks. The orcs hewed at the Men and at each other, snarling. Some of the huge, furious Uruks seemed able to resist somewhat the mysterious spell around Legolas and Gimli, and rushed at them. But every blow of the Mirkwood Elf and Dwarrow leader landed well, while their opponents’ own strikes wandered astray. 

Turning round and round in the melee, the Elf wielded his needle-like pick, for the crowd was far too close for the bow. He stabbed a bloody-handed enemy in the heart, pulled the weapon back, and took another in the throat.  A huge orc slashed downward at Gimli’s helm from behind, but the blow rebounded as if off rock and hit its owner in the face. He stumbled back screaming. Gimli’s own determined brow was covered in perspiration and his long braid swung on his back as he landed axe-blow after axe-blow against the enemy bodies, leaving a wake of opponents with split bellies and crippled legs.

The Dwarves were shouting—”Khazâd ai-menu!”—and already they had won their way nearly to the opposite side. Legolas saw Gandalf looking at he and Gimli with surprise ( _and concern?_ ) but waving them on, and the Elves of the Golden Wood came battling down to meet them.

And all at once there was a pause in the battle. They had won the hall: remnants of the enemy were fleeing the scene through doors at either end. Gandalf’s rich voice said, “Legolas Greenleaf, I am glad to see you. And I believe this is the son of Glóin? And you, Kili. Your uncle the King shall be _very_ pleased.”

In a graceful movement, Tauriel went down on her knees and the Dwarven archer laid his dark head on her shoulder. The Elves of the Golden Wood appeared thunderstruck at this, and so did most of the Dwarves.

“Well, well, well,” said Gandalf.  “Yes, yes. But we must be getting on. Time enough for introductions later!”

“TIME! Time? You think you have _time_ , Gandalf the Grey?”

A hate-filled screech: it was the voice of Saruman. They all turned at once. The White Wizard revealed himself in their sight without sound, without warning: absent one moment, and present the next.  

Legolas felt bile roil in his stomach.

“You think to defeat me with the help of these pathetic lower beings you fondle and ally yourself with, betraying our Order? You shall find that there is time merely for your ruin!”

“It is on _my side_ that the hours run now, Saruman.  Pause and take heed!” Gandalf’s voice rang out: no longer the kindly old wanderer, the wise councillor, but fearful and mighty.  “Do you not see the trap you have fallen into? Your treachery is revealed! Not only to us, your former friends, but to that dread Master to whom you have betrayed us! What shall _He_ do to you when he discovers you have played this secret game behind his back?”

Saruman, standing on a dais at one end of the hall, his long white robes strangely shimmering and shifting, showed a look of terrible haggardness at Gandalf’s words. Perhaps even terror, perhaps even a wish for succor: for a moment he seemed as if he wavered. And then rage and hatred washed over his countenance and the moment was gone.

As he raised his staff with a bitter cry, there was a great flash of light in the hall: but it did not come from Saruman. A white mist like a summer dawn shimmered its way across the floor and from it stepped the figure of a woman, pale and glimmering, ancient and powerful. She was at once the slight figure of a golden-haired lady and a vortex of magical disruption, roiling through reality on a field of skewed probabilities.

“Galadriel! Galadriel!” The Elves of the Golden Woods shouted.

“Galadriel! You _foul Noldor cunt,_ you dare to leave your woods and threaten _mm——aaarggh_!” screamed Saruman, a second before a counter-spell hit him directly in the face, courtesy of Gandalf.

Rapidly the powers of both Gandalf and Galadriel were turned against the traitor-wizard. He muttered curses and hurled flaming bolts, only to see his spells fail one after the other. The other Elves and the Dwarves huddled together,  as fell magic and destructive enchantments rained down. Slowly but surely, the White Lady of Lórien and the Grey Wizard advanced, side by side, beating down Saruman’s defenses.

“He shall fall!” Gimli muttered, “They will bring him down, the villain!”

But all at once, going to one knee, the White Wizard raised his staff in one hand while the other gestured some secret sign. _Something awful_ , Legolas felt at once in his body and his head, _like a wave of foul sickness. Saruman has lost, knows it, and this is some desperate final act of vengeance. He’ll destroy us all_!”

And without thinking, he reached out a hand to Gimli standing beside him. Then he and the Dwarf were suddenly throwing themselves between the evil and good wizards ( _and how mad was that?_ ) and Saruman mouthed the final words of his chant (some terrible dark tongue, not Elvish or any speech of Men) and a bubbling grey-green wave of spell-power roiled from his staff.  Legolas saw Saruman’s startled face taking in Gimli and he at the last moment: _Oh, he forgot us, he forgot he even did this to us. Too many games at once, had you, you beast?_

And then the spell broke over them in a wave: and rebounded. Back the way it came went the wave of foul energy. 

Saruman had time to shriek once. His body liquefied, meat turning to foul-scented waste with a stomach-turning slop. A black shape of smoke and ash, almost retaining the outline of a man, reared up and reached toward them. Among the Wood Elves, someone had time to pray  “Elbereth, Githoniel!” But then the smoke-figure dissolved and blew away. All that was left was a stain on the gleaming marble floor.

Gandalf and Galadriel walked slowly to the spot, a look of sorrow upon their faces.

“ _Who_ is that again? The white woman? I canna keep all these straight!” whispered Vigg the miner to Gimli.  

“Who cares, she and the grey one _ruined_ Saruman well enough: the foul, torturing murderer!” Kili replied. “But what were you doing, Legolas, dragging my cousin out there? Why did Saruman’s spell-thing bounce off you two like a pebble off a shield?”

As if their voices called him back to the present, Gandalf turned. Coming to their sides, he looked down at Gimli under knitted brows and gestured. With seeming reluctance, Gimli held up his wrist; the wizard took it gently in one hand. 

For all Legolas’ gratitude to Gandalf, for all his trust in him, a little voice inside him instantly rebelled at seeing him examine his friend and touch the markings. Gimli had his face turned away, his eyes closed and his teeth gritted.

“Stop it!’ Legolas hissed at Mithrandir, without pausing to think, “You are  _hurting_ him!”

“I am _not_ ,” Gandalf replied sternly, “I do him no harm. But this thing must be understood,” and then, seeing the Elf’s face, more gently: “Legolas, show me _your_ arm.”

He dropped Gimli’s wrist, and the Dwarf immediately pulled it to his chest. Legolas felt an odd, protective qualm for the fellow go through him, even as Mithrandir turned his stern gaze his way.

His own arm felt strange in the wizard’s strong old hands: the feeling of humming power flared and then cooled, receding, fading.

“Hmmmm. Curious. Very curious indeed. Very fortunate, possibly! Saruman clearly meant this work to do something very different. He has utterly misread the consequences of this enchantment, I think. And above all, he did not imagine you would act together. And that has saved your lives, possibly all our lives.”

Gandalf gave them a piercing look from under his great shaggy brows, but then he turned away. “I shall look forward to hearing how this alliance came about, Master Elf, Master Dwarf! But in the meantime, there is urgent business to be finished! Tauriel, Haldir, good people of the Golden Woods, Dwarves of Erebor, your ears for the moment!”

#


	3. Escape

“Before the Sun was made, before the Moon rose, in the deep prisons of Utumno did our old Enemy shape these servants of flame, corrupt spirits who chose to make themselves his weapons,” said Galadriel.  “We must not leave this last one here to become the toy of Sauron, who has ever lusted after the powers of his old Master. You and I, Mithrandir, must descend below and confront the Flame of Morgoth with the Secret Fire of the West!” 

The tall White Lady of Lórien bore about her a disturbing air of ancient power and terrible knowledge. Though beautiful, she was also uncanny. Her eyes seemed to see both what was before them, and distant things invisible to others. Almost it seemed as if she emanated light, as well as reflecting it.

While her own Elves looked at her with reverence, Legolas felt a cold shiver go down his spine. He thought even Tauriel looked cautious. The Dwarves drew near each other, well back from Galadriel and Mithrandir.

Except for one.

“Lady,” said Gimli, looking up at her, “if there is any way I can serve you in this battle, I would you ask it of me. For this is the great enemy of my house, even that which slew Durin.  I would give my life’s blood to bring an end to it.”

The great Elven sorceress looked down at  him; a faint surprise seemed to play about her serene smile. The Dwarf, though he was broad and strong, stood less high even than her shoulder. He was ragged in his scavenged chainmail shirt, spattered with gore; his long hair trailed from his half-undone braid, unkempt from imprisonment. And yet he held her gaze fearlessly.

“Gimli!” Kíli said worriedly. “I’m with you, kinsman— if you venture, I’ll come, too. But a _Balrog_!”

Legolas said nothing; he could think of no words wise enough or foolish enough for the moment. But he stepped to the Dwarf’s side and put one hand on his shoulder.

“This is no axe-work, son of Glóin!” said Gandalf, not unkindly. “All the blades of Khazâd-dum at its mightiest were not enough to so much as hinder this foe, let alone defeat him. ”

“Perhaps my might is small, in comparison to yours and this Elven Lady’s, Tharkûn,” said Gimli, drawing himself up, and his brow frowning. “Yet small deeds added to great have oft turned the tide of battle!” 

“That is true, Gimli. And if courage alone were needed for this venture, surely I would welcome your arm alongside us. But truly your strength indeed is not enough for this battle,” replied Galadriel.  “Or rather it calls for a different sort of strength than yours.” 

“But Lady, I would not see you go forth against this enemy unaided!” Gimli said, looking up into her face. Gandalf beside her raised his bushy eyebrows, and the Dwarf quickly amended. “You and Gandalf, I mean. My heart rebels at such a thing. May I do nothing to serve you?” 

“And why would you serve _me_ , in particular, Gimli, son of Glóin? For I am a stranger to you, I think.” 

“Because you have come to the succor of my people, though we _are_ strangers. And because you are both brave and beautiful, more so than any jewel that ever shone in Khazâd-dum in its days of glory.” He looked up at her with reverence.  “Perhaps my strength is too weak to weigh in your great battle against so mighty a Bane: yet I cannot help but offer it to you.”

“Speak not of weakness, Gimli. Seldom have I met so great a courage, both in your heart and in your tongue, so that you are not ashamed to offer what your heart urges.” 

The Dwarves, and Legolas too, looked from one to the other, astonished to hear so dissimilar  a pair trading fair words amid the grim scene of battle, still strewn with fallen foes (“Like poetry out of a book!” said Kili, later, “But they were making it up as they went!”). Only Gandalf did not look surprised. He had a tolerant smile as he looked at Galadriel, as if for an old friend.

She held out her hand to the Dwarf with a kindly look in her eyes, and he bowed over it.

She said, “Go now, Durin’s son! Go with my followers, and lead your people to safety, if you will accept our hospitality in Lothlórien. And if Iluvatar grants Mithrandir and I the victory over this creature of Morgoth, we shall walk together under the trees of my home and I will tell you of my memories of Khazâd-dum in days of old, when the harpers played and the forges rang and the crystal lamps shone forever bright.”

Gimli turned away in silence, too moved to say more.  But time pressed and Haldir, the captain of the Lórien elves, began to trade rapid questions in Sindar with Legolas and Tauriel. The Dwarves looked skeptical and broke out in a flurry of their private hand signals.

“Now, now!” Said Gandalf to a pair of miners who had just exchanged a particularly rude remark in iglishmek. “The night is getting on, and we must all be friends here! There is work to be done! Good people, you must take the road, and soon, and we will see you back in the Golden Wood, if we are all fortunate enough to get ourselves there!” 

In another few minutes, Gimli had shaken off his emotion and begun to shepherd his people to the gates. They all turned back, Elves and Dwarves, to watch the Grey Wizard and the White Lady once more: the great ones raised their hands—was it a blessing? A farewell? —-and then they were gone, descended into the deeps to face an even greater danger than Saruman. The escaping prisoners and their escort threw open their gates and plunged down the outer steps into the free air. 

#

They ran and they ran. The Silvan Elves of Lórien ran like fleet deer, their bows on their backs and their graceful cloaks trailing behind them. The escaping Dwarven prisoners ran like Dwarves: they put their heads down and they pressed onwards, enduring, their short, thick legs pounding the earth, and they covered the miles not so rapidly, but very persistently. 

They had wounded among them. When they had set themselves to run, each of the Dwarves too hurt to be afoot had been taken up on the back of a comrade, though it seemed to Legolas that to carry such a weight and run, too, must be nigh unendurable for the mortals. Yet he thought he saw in the Khazâds’ determined faces that they would suffer no questions about keeping up.

He went to Nin, who was helping to settle them, and spoke: and so he ended up himself with an injured Dwarf to ferry; none other than the scarred grey veteran who had given him the dirty eye early in the battle.  “Rafnsvartr, son of Ráðúlfr,” he said into Legolas’ ear, between gritted teeth; he had a bad spear wound through one leg. “My thanks.”

“Raff—-, er, Rav—-,” said the Elf, cautiously. 

“Just call me Crow, then. S’what it means.”

“Hold tight, Crow!” Legolas replied. “I may need my hands as we run!”

He did. As they escaped down the Dimrill Dale, the towering mountains at their backs, the Lórien Elves quickly took them away from the old main road into dense thickets where none but a rabbit (or an Elf) would have found a path. They could hear in the distance the howls of wolves, but they were outpacing them, for now. They must hope to beat them to cover before night fell again.

Legolas used his hands to thrust back the dense branches and trailing thorns of the brushland, and when he looked to the side, he saw Tauriel also keeping close beside the Dwarves.  The rough terrain and rapid pace was not easy on those who were exhausted or wounded. Several times, the Elf heard poor Crow gasp when he was forced to shift him, or when he landed heavily as he scrambled amid the rocks; but the grizzled Dwarf did not complain, though his hurt must greatly pain him.

Legolas saw Gimli looking at him, more than once, but there was no chance to speak.  He thought he read exhaustion in the dwarf’s red, sweating face and gasping breath. Their need for shelter and rest was becoming urgent.

When he looked inward to himself, though, the Elf found that though his bruises and hurts were still _there,_ he still possessed a small reserve of strength and lightness that made it possible to run onwards: it was the free wind in his face, it was the light of the sky overhead, it was the distance they were putting between themselves and the dark memories of Moria.

There was an uncomfortable moment when their Lórien guards began to outpace the toiling Dwarven expedition and he thought that some looked back with frustration at the escapees’ slower pace. But their lieutenant Haldir seemed a good sort. He bid them pause, and several more Elves came and offered to take up the Dwarrow wounded. Few words were spoken, but Legolas thought that there was a better spirit among the fleeing party after this, and they got on faster. 

At last the thorny thickets and stubborn brush gave way to a cleaner woodland of slender birch and little brooks, and they began to be sheltered from the open plain and the range of the mountains behind, bare grey branches arching above their heads.

The sound of a small, solitary waterfall fell upon their ears—-peaceful, yet sad—-the Nimrodel out of stories, he guessed.  They crossed the shallow stream, fringed with ice at its edges, and suddenly he felt and tasted living magic all around him. His senses told him there was a wall, a net, a fence, which he could not see with his eyes but felt in his body:  subtle but strong, a guardian force. Yet again it seemed less a fence and more a living thing: it brushed his face with intangible fingers and knew him for Elf.

The Dwarves halted suddenly and he heard cries not only in Westron, but in their secret Khazâd tongue. He guessed the barrier— while it did no harm— did not feel like the caress of a friend to them.

Suddenly it was as if the air in front of them rippled like water. And where they had before seen only an ordinary woods, grey and bare in the grip of January, now there rose a strange and mighty forest, like none any of the visitors had ever seen before.

Though it was midwinter, the trees were not bare but instead bore leaves of gold and silver; and many of the trees were mightier even than those of Mirkwood, rising up high as towers. There was a strange air of timelessness, as if they saw before them, as through a door, into a kingdom of elder ages. And yet ordinary living birds piped and sang and their feet crunched on dry fallen leaves below. It was no dream, but a place still in this Middle-earth, though set apart from it.

“Lo, we are upon the border march of Lothlórien, the Golden Wood, where reigns Galadriel and Celeborn and no evil may pass!” cried Haldir. “Catch your breath. Here we must wait for a while, for I have sent to my ruler to learn his will.”

“Your gloomy old Mirkwood up North was enough to give me the shivers, Elf,” said Crow, over Legolas’s shoulder. “This place is mad as mine-gas.”

“I have never been here myself before,” Legolas admitted. “I feel wonder, too. But these people are my distant kin. They are good folk, so take heart! I will set you down here for the moment,  if you mind it not! So that I may speak with Gimli and the people of Lórien.”

He stooped and let the wounded Dwarf down as easily as he could. He saw Nin come towards them; she must be as exhausted as the rest, yet still she plied her healer’s art. A valiant little lady: he touched her shoulder as they passed. She gave him a moment’s smile. Crow said quietly, just as Legolas stepped away, “You’re a good lad, Elf.”

As he moved forward to Gimli’s side, Tauriel did the same. There was at last a minute in which Legolas could hold out his hand to her and finally time enough for her to take it.

His wise, brave friend, alive! Her face seemed weary, but strong and calm. She had not fallen, after all, not ended in the hands of Saruman and his monstrous followers—-but as the grateful thought crossed his mind, he thought he saw a flash of pain and concern flash on her countenance. He drew back his hand, awkwardly, abruptly, and tried to compose himself. She could see his battered appearance; had she glimpsed the bruised state of his spirit, as well?  Worst of all, could she guess the reason? She knew he had spent long, terrible hours in enemy hands, since their mission divided them.

Right now, there was urgent need to attend to those around them: to his relief. It seemed Tauriel and Gimli were not entire strangers, as the Dwarf sketched a bow to her. Was their acquaintance Kili’s doing? The Dwarf leader was asking, in a low tone, what she knew of this Golden Wood and its leaders. 

“My deepest thanks for the risks you ran for us, Captain Tauriel. It goes sore against my heart to move so coldly into business, but you came with these Lórien people to Moria. What know you of them? Who leads, since the White Lady has gone with Gandalf?” 

The dwarf quietly took Legolas by the hand and pulled him into their conversation. It was but a moment’s touch. Yet there was an ease in it, as if they two shared the trust of friendship, without pause or question, that went right to the Elf’s heart. Oh uncanny and unforeseen days, that had given a stranger this sudden place in his thoughts!

“Celeborn rules here with Galadriel, a wise and ancient Lord and a foe to all evil-doers. Still, he is more reserved and more stern than she,” Tauriel said softly, “Though more gracious than our Thranduil”—she glanced apologetically at Legolas—”He is alike in seeking to protect this land from all outsiders. If it were not for the friendship of Mithrandir and Galadriel, I think, we would not have found aid here to bring to your side.”

 At this very moment, a new troop of the Lórien Elves arrived, melting quietly into the glade from all sides. Legolas knew somewhat of courts and rank: to his eye, these were more senior lords, though plainly and soberly dressed. One who wore a high-crested helm and bore an air of authority spoke:

“Haldir of the Forest Wardens, Lord Celeborn sends you and yours his thanks and high praise for your deeds on this dangerous errand to Moria. He wills that we take charge of these outsiders from here on. Your people may return to their posts or their rest.”

He turned to the visitors:  “Legolas Greenleaf, Tauriel of the Woodland Guard, my Lord wishes you to come to him, that we may learn more of these events.”  

Such a summons he expected. The two of them represented a great Silvan kingdom, distantly related to Lothlórien, though they themselves were  strangers to this place. He had guessed that they two must answer for their presence: how they came to be here against their own King’s command, and why in company with the Dwarves. Still, they would be greeted as kin and fellow Woodland Elves.

But the officer’s next words brought a shock.

 “To the Naugrim prisoners of Erebor—” And at this usage, the Dwarves begin to mutter, and a premonition rose in Legolas’s throat as the Galadhrim lord continued, “No Dwarf has ever been bid to this realm, nor stepped within it before.But  Lord Celeborn wishes to treat you justly according to your needs. Since the Lady Galadriel offered refuge, the Naugrim are to be lead to a place of safety. Guards will be placed around you, but we will bring you food and drink and any necessity you require.”

Now armed guards stepped forward around the speaker.

“But the dwarf Gimli we have heard lies under an enchantment of the traitorous wizard Saruman. We are ordered to secure him with bonds and bring him before the King.”

 

#


	4. Standoff

Gimli was seated cross-legged on the ground. His hands were bound in front of him, in his lap. A blindfold hid the top of his face. His mouth was fixed in an expressionless straight line. He sat absolutely still. 

A long piece of his ragged red-brown hair trailed over his brow, over the dark cloth covering his eyes. Legolas had a strange impulse to go to him, to put back the hair, to—- 

It was all going wrong. 

A light rain had begun to fall. The air in Lothlórien was far warmer than the season outside its walls, and Silvan Elves spend much of their days under the sky in all weather. He himself scarcely felt the drizzle, and he did not doubt that it was the same for Celeborn’s folk.

And so they did not notice that their charge was shivering. The dwarf had just spent months underground. And then had fought and run for hour after hour, soaked in sweat. He was not used to sitting out in the woods. And he had no cloak, because back in Moria he had put his over Legolas when—

He could not help it. The Elves here had already taken pity on the rags he escaped captivity in, and given him new clothes, including one of their warm green cloaks. It would be the wrong size— but he crossed the open space to where they made Gimli sit, and he took off the garment as he walked.

Two guards silently blocked his way. One, at least, was quick or sympathetic enough to see what he intended—he held out his hand and Legolas put the cloak into it. The guard stooped and put it around Gimli’s shoulders, saying a low word to him as he did. The Dwarf remained silent. Legolas longed to call out to him, to say that he was _there_ , that he would _fix this \_. But what good would that do?

It was all going wrong.

#

That Celeborn was no thoughtless tyrant was easy enough to see. His brow was troubled, heavy with care.

It was clear also that he was  far-seeing, and able to gather knowledge with startling rapidity. Much of what Haldir and his men had witnessed in Moria seemed already known to him. Perhaps Galadriel and Gandalf had their ways of sending some word, beyond mortal means. But alas, it seemed equally clear that what news had reached the king was partial and confused. And perhaps the bitter lessons of experience lent a dark cast to what he heard.

Legolas and Tauriel in their turn were stepping on each other’s words as they tried to explain. Saruman’s betrayal—-the hostages—-their failed attempt to reach the prisoners—the Dwarves’ uprising—the strange runes carved into flesh—the White Wizard’s fall—the Balrog!

The Lord of Lórien listened for some time, but soon he gestured them to silence.

“Even as we speak, my Lady has gone to battle one of the greatest foes that ever walked in Arda. From afar I sense that she and Mithrandir are embroiled in terrible struggle, though indeed, that they have not returned to us already would suggest it. We have been betrayed by one of the Istari, who it seems was in league with Sauron himself! And you would chide me for my necessary precautions with these Naugrim?”

“But I as well as Gimli was bound with this spell by Saruman!” Legolas objected. He wanted to say—-part of him _wished_ to speak of Gimli’s compassion to him, of the Dwarven leader’s gentleness to his own helpless state, laid stripped and injured before a stranger. But he could not do so, yet. He could not make them understand what so private an act of mercy had meant to him. Surely he could make them change their treatment of the Dwarves, without—--that.

“You are an Elf, young Greenleaf; your spirit I can read; not so for a Naug. Besides, it was only scant hours that the wizard held you,” said Celeborn, ”Whereas the Dwarves have been in the sorcerer's hands for months, and this Gimli imbued with his dark mark for all that time, as you admit. It seems possible that thing itself was meant as a sort of hedge against rescue: a trap so that someone like yourself who tried to free the prisoners would instead be ensnared.”

“But it didn’t work as Saruman intended! It turned to good!” Legolas replied. “The Dwarves rose up against Saruman, and the spell sent the enemies scattering! The spell or curse, whatever we call it, it gave he and I a sort of bond that we turned against the wizard’s own followers in battle! Tauriel could tell you, and Mithrandir, they saw it working!”

“Mithrandir is not here,” said Celeborn grimly. “And Lady Tauriel, by her own words, has an—entanglement that may blind her to the dangers here.”

Beside Legolas, his friend paled. If it were Thranduil, she would have shouted back at him, let him try to bully her as he might. But the King of Mirkwood  knew her and trusted her, however often he forgot it. Whereas here they were guests and visitors; they needed the goodwill of the Lord of the Golden Wood, and he had little enough patience for them as it was.

 _Poor Tauriel,_ thought Legolas with pain, _first my father, now Celeborn_. Everyone counts her affection for young Kili against her, everyone keeps insisting, one way or the other, that she must be wrong in her friendship to this outsider. And what of me? For it seems that I, too, have become _entangled._  

The Lord of Lórien paced before his throne. His voice was not unkind. “You are young, both of you. You have no memory of the great betrayals that have bloodied our peoples in the past. No recall of lost Eregion, where trust turned to terror. Of Morgoth, the Old Enemy, who made his prisoners into spies and traitors and sent them home again to turn on their own people. You do not remember the beautiful cities of Beleriand, falling one by one to treachery.”

The sadness of memory on Celeborn’s ancient face was terrible to see, and it passed into resolve. “I do not intend ill to these Dwarves. I would not cast them into the wilderness or let them perish of want. But I will not trust in them, or treat them with the freedom of friendship.”

“Galadriel did, my Lord,” said Legolas, quietly. “You will think me outrageously bold, sir, to call on the name of your lady in her absence. But she spoke to the Dwarven captain in kindness, though it was but for a moment on the field of war. He offered her his weapon and service. And she said—--she said when she returned, they should walk together under the trees, and she would tell of her memories of Khazâd-dum in its great days.”

“Then when she returns to this wood,” said Celeborn, grimly. “Such friendship may be possible. But not before.”

 _Even this mighty lord was afraid for his Lady, it seems_. He thought of the Balrog: the terrible stories of its destructive power in the Elder Days; of what Gimli had said—that the stones of Moria themselves reeked with its evil—and he trembled for Mithrandir and the White Lady, and for all their peoples.

Celeborn gave a signal to his folk. The guards brought Gimli in, gripped by either shoulder, for the blindfold was still on his face and the bonds on his hands. If Legolas was any reader of faces, the wardens had gone beyond Celeborn’s intent in their strict treatment of the Dwarf. But the ancient Silvan was too experienced a leader to chide his own people in front of others. Instead, he merely made a gesture, and they pulled off both the cloth bound around Gimli’s  head and their bonds from his wrists. 

The look of resentment and proud hurt on the Dwarf’s face was unmistakable. It did not soften when he saw Legolas.

Celeborn stood from his throne, long robes pooling softly at his feet. His face, framed by smooth locks of purest silver, remained stern. Stern, and also weary.

There was a long silence, in which only the sighing of the wind in the forest could be heard. Uncertain, the other people in the room looked from their lord to the dwarf, and back. At last, since the two principals had apparently laid aside any pretense of courtesy, one guard repeated Celeborn’s name and lordship. Legolas quietly said Gimli’s name and descent.

“Well?” said the Elf Lord.

 “It is for you to say what you wish from me,” said Gimli coldly, “since I am evidently your prisoner.” 

Celeborn stepped closer, towering over him; his arms were forbiddingly crossed across his chest.

“Tell me, Master Dwarf, if the situations of our people were reversed. If a group of Elves appeared at the Lonely Mountain, strangers to you and unbidden, fleeing troubles they had brought upon themselves, and asked for succor, how would fierce Thorin Oakenshield treat them? If they confessed that they had served your enemies, and that one of them bore evidence of his dark arts upon his very body? For the proud King Under the Mountain will tell anyone who listens that he is no friend to the Elves.” 

There was a long pause. The Dwarrow leader stared at a spot on the ground: unyielding resistance was written in the set of his shoulders. In his breast, Legolas felt a wave of half-melancholy sympathy for the little warrior’s worn air of ragged defiance.

Finally, Gimli looked up with fierce dark eyes at the Elven lord. “You waste words, O King.”

Celeborn’s brows contracted, and his voice was steely. “How so?”

“Because I may not answer you, to tell you what I think of such treatment. Nor will I speak for what Thorin or any other who is not here might do. My people are in desperate need, and I am charged with their care. I may say nothing to you that might risk your wrath, while they are helpless in your power.”

 _That is discourteous_ , thought Legolas, _but hardly unfair_. He saw Celeborn reach a similar conclusion.

 “Let me be clear then: I have brought you before me that we may speak and deal upon this perilous situation. I will not hold against your people what you say to me, or punish them if I dislike your words. Now, what would you ask of me?”

Gimli’s jaw was clenched, but he kept his voice flat and even. “You spoke of Thorin and his pride. Let it be so, though we know him better for his great heart and love of our people. What do you think this proud King of Durin’s Folk will do, if he finds you have made prisoners of us as Saruman did?"

 The court around them muttered restlessly at his words, but Celeborn was silent.

“We are a mere handful of Dwarrow, and we are ragged and weak from confinement. Yet still when we rose, we fought our way even to Saruman’s gates!” Gimli gave the Elven Lord a sharp look. “But the Host of Erebor is great, sir, and their axes are keen. Do you want them on your doorstep?”

 _That struck home_ , thought Legolas, glancing at the Lord’s troubled brow, _for it is clear the Celeborn wants above all to protect his kingdom. Gimli has spent the last hour thinking of what he would say to him, I venture_.  

Celeborn still emanated chilled reserve, however. “Are you comparing our treatment of you to the evil wizard’s, when we came to your aid? And do you think to threaten the Golden Wood with war, Dwarf?” 

“I am telling you that if you will not have war between our peoples, you must act to prevent it.”  Gimli returned Celeborn’s gaze with equal sternness. “I do not say that you treat us with Saruman’s cruelty.  But It is clear to me now that unlike Gandalf and these two of Mirkwood, Lórien did not intend to come to _our_ aid. You wished only to act against the threat of Saruman and the monster he sought to unleash. That we Dwarves did not die, too, in Saruman’s undoing is merely an accident, and not an especially happy one to your taste.”

Celeborn let this statement pass without contest. Legolas looked to Tauriel, and found her looking back with mutual dismay. From a day of heroic deeds, done by one another’s sides, so quickly had the ancient distrust between their peoples sprung between them once more! 

Was it Legolas’s imagination, or was there sadness on Gimli’s face? The memory of Galadriel and the potent, fragile moment of mutual sympathy she had created sprang into the Elf’s mind: but then it seemed to fade like melting snow. The Dwarf did not turn his eyes towards him; not even once.

Meanwhile, Celeborn said flatly, “I do not apologize for our caution. You spent months in Saruman’s service. You furthered his purpose.”

“We were compelled,” Gimli spoke with closed fists and bitter ire. “By the torture of hostages taken from our friends and family. Hostages whom he finally murdered. And when we knew all, we rose against him, willing to die so long as we served him no more!”

“So I am told. But that is hardly a guarantee of your trustworthiness towards my realm. Dwarves are loyal to other Dwarves; so it has ever been. That you should be safe friends for Elves is another matter, and unproven— so far as I am concerned.”

“So be it, then! Since we are accounted neither guests nor friends nor allies, but unwanted strangers let us bargain as such.” Gimli drained emotion from either his face or his voice. Even the passion of resentment that had lit his eyes with fire was now banked into stony reserve.

“Let me send word to Thorin of our state. Assign us a place of safety within your bounds, till passage back to the Mountain is arranged. ” Gimli’s face was turned to one side; Legolas thought, _he is as hardened and wary again as the hour when I met him_.  “You know that Erebor is rich. Have your people make an account of what food or necessities are provided to us. You shall be paid for anything we use. We shall fee you for not throwing us back to the Orcs, if you like. Meantime, let our folk have as little to do with one another as might be.” 

Celeborn looked down at Gimli for a long moment. Then he nodded. _The cold heartlessness of this perhaps sits ill in his inward self_ , Legolas thought. _But long, painful experience has created this wariness. Alas for our peoples that it is so_.

“But before I may release you back to your folk, you must reveal to me all you know of this mark Saruman set on you and on Legolas. Show me your arm. And you as well, kinsman.”  The Lord of Lórien beckoned them and they approached side by side. But Gimli looked only straight ahead.

Celeborn spent a long moment looking closely at the marks carved into their skin. Once more, Legolas noticed that Gimli reacted to another’s touch upon the spot with a grimace; once more, Legolas found a strange pain in his own chest.  

After releasing their wrists, Celeborn abruptly reached out a long hand and set it under Gimli’s chin, tilting his jaw forcefully up, and staring for a long moment into his eyes.  

Tauriel exclaimed under her breath— surely Celeborn‘s gesture was deeply offensive to Dwarven ways. Gimli tensed and gritted his teeth: there was an awful expression on his face, and suddenly his eyes were wet with unshed tears. Still, he did not cry out or struggle.

At last, Celeborn released him. The Dwarf staggered away a step and stared at the ground. 

“I am sorry for the necessity of this examination,” the Lord of Lórien said with a sigh, and his face indeed held something like sympathy. “It was needful for me to search out any trace of the White Wizard’s will in you. I see no such power, at present. That is good. For the rest,  I will take thought on these marks and consult with Galadriel and Mithrandir upon their return.” He ascended slowly back to his high seat. “In the meantime, we shall settle your folk here with such precautions as are needed.”

Between Celeborn’s tall archers, Gimli was lead away. When Legolas would have gone to him, others stepped between; the Dwarf did not raise his head again as he left.

Indeed, even as the cold counsel of that afternoon had suggested, so things were done: as refugees,  not allies, the Lonely Mountain folk were provided for. In near-silence, Elven guards worked with the Dwarves to set up a camp; cloth was made into tents, and necessaries supplied. The enclosure was fenced about with stakes and sentries, the Wood Elves setting guards outside the bounds and the Dwarves placing their own armed watch inside.

Gandalf and Galadriel had not returned, when the sun set three days after the escapees arrived in the Golden Wood. 

#

“I will not give up,” he told himself.

Half hidden among the forest thickets, Legolas quietly sat back on his haunches and watched the dwarves passing to and fro inside their small compound.

He saw Nin, going in and out of the tent that held the wounded, carrying water or cloths and bowls of food to her charges.

He saw sturdy Vigg, ever shooting wary glances at the Elves, seeming to carry firewood and do other errands for Nin. He spotted Crow, who more than once was on sentry duty despite his bandaged leg, leaning on a stick and clutching an axe. He saw Kili, who seemed to be all over the place, comforting others, cheering them with quiet chatter and some of the only laughter heard in the camp. And there were others he recognized from the uprising in Moria; but if any noticed _him_ , they made no sign to him.

He saw Gimli. But his friend did not, would not, see him. _Friend_ ? Scoffed a skeptical voice in his mind. _Yes,_ in defiant reply, _certainly!_ Friend.

He had gone to Celeborn alone on the day after the arrangements were made. 

“I do not forbid you to speak to any of them,” said the King. “Of course I trust that you would not help them to break their bounds. But if you would not be disappointed, do not expect much of them. You fought together, but that was when your strength in battle was of use to them. It is not likely they will return the sympathy you spend on them; just I do not look to find any gratitude for the safety our realm provides. The guard I have set on their movements displeases them, and Dwarves, even the decent ones, think of their own kind only. Such is their way.” 

Legolas bowed,and took the permission he has been given, and did not point out that Celeborn had given the Dwarves every possible support for their prejudice. 

Deep among the dappled glades, he caught up with a party of the Erebor companions who’d been allowed into the woods to gather firewood. They had elven guards shadowing them. But the Lórien people spoke an obscure dialect  of Sindarin distant from the speech even of his own land, and few spoke any Westron. Withdrawn from the world, most had little practice listening to the words of strangers. If a few understood him: well, he would simply have to bear their judgement.

“Crow! Vigg! My brother and sister!” He slid from the trees and sat down near the dwarves as they worked.

Crow guffawed, and Vigg looked at him suspiciously. “We fought alongside of you for _two days_ , leaf-eater!” Vigg muttered. “Don’t take on like you’re one of us!”

“But I have always been told that shared battle creates bonds of brotherhood! Surely the _number_ of hours we fought alongside each other is less important!” said Legolas, with assumed innocence. “As for presumption, I do not deny it. Does not all the lore of your people tell you of the arrogance of elves?”

“ _He’s_ not gonna talk to you, flimsy,” said Crow, rolling his eyes.

“What do you care, anyway? Bad wizard’s dead, and here you are in a forest of your own kind,” said Vigg, “And our Gimli owes you nothing that I can see.”

“Vigg, tender Vigg!” Legolas said, and her mouth opened in outrage, “That is just the problem. It is I who am indebted to _him_. And I would serve him if I could—only I can’t very well if he won’t talk to me. You, who might guess what it is to be devoted to someone who may not have noticed your willingness, yet! Can you not sympathize?”

He took out a folded note he had brought with him and offered it to them. Crow grinned at him, but it was Vigg who took it.  “Fuck off!” she said, and stumped off to gather fallen branches. The grizzled Crow shrugged at him and followed her.

The next day, at an hour of the afternoon that he had begged in his note, he saw Gimli waiting at the edge of the encampment. His brow was fierce and unhappy. The Lórien guard said, “By the will of Lord Celeborn, the Dwarf Lord may walk freely with you, so long as you serve as pledge that he will not stray off unguarded.”

“My thanks!” said Legolas sweetly, while Gimli shot a look of pure distaste at both of them. The dwarf walked by his side (at a gesture from Legolas), until they had proceeded some ten minutes into the thick forest and were well away from guards and ears.

They had found a little glade of birch in which a tumble of stone made some natural seats. Above them, the strange unchanging boughs of Lórien swayed. 

“Got your note. Came to tell you,” said Gimli, between clenched teeth. “Go to _hell_. Fuck you, and fuck the Elves, you heartless, miserable, smooth-faced bastards!”

Legolas could think of no words that could equal the events of the last few days. So he knelt down, and put his arms around Gimli’s shoulders and rested his head on the other’s. “I sorrow,” he said, “for all of it. It is a poor thing to say, but they are frightened. They are not thinking very clearly!”

The dwarf hesitated; but he did not push him away. At last, he brought his own arms up, tentatively, around Legolas. They stood like that, in quiet, for some time.

“It is not everyone,” said Legolas, “who can speak kindly to others in their hurt.” 

“Whist,” said Gimli, “It was little enough I could do. You fell into evil hands in trying to do what was brave and right. And still went you forth and fought with honor beside us. You told Vigg that you were in my debt— it is not so. You need not be grateful, because I did not act like an orc!” 

“And yet,” said Legolas, “Am I not free to choose whom I would thank? May I not say who I would have as my friend, if they will it in turn?” And very daringly, he raised his hand to Gimli’s cheek, and looked him in the eyes for a long lingering moment.

“Aye,” the other said at last, slowly. “I am your friend, if it is your wish. I will try not to lay the fickle coldness and dishonorable suspicion of your kin at _your_ door.”  

“Oh!” said Legolas, trying not to be disappointed. “Well, that is a step forward. I am grateful that you will count me a friend, for I would be yours. Only I would not have you hate my kind, either!”

Gimli’s brows drew together: it was evident he was thinking of his wrongs. “I am hasty, I see,” said Legolas, “I have often been told so. Events have served us all ill, and you have a right to your dismay. I will use patience, to see if I can win you to a better understanding of Elvenkind.”

“You will need the patience of a stone to win me to that,” said Gimli. He glowered, and certainly did not look very yielding.

“It is your people whom Aulë made to imitate rock, all stubborn and hard,” said Legolas, venturing to tease.  “And mine were created in kin to water and growing things: rivers can wear away stones, you know, and trees can crack them with their roots!”

“You are full of clever words,” the Dwarf growled, but there might have been a fraction of a smile on his mouth.

Legolas sprang to his feet at last. “I shall quit while I am ahead, then, and still in your favor. And you should return to your folk before they think I have spirited you away!”

As he turned to leave the glade, however, Gimli plucked at his sleeve. “A moment,” he said, and hesitated. “Is there no word of Gandalf? Of . . . the Lady? Cannot your Elvish magics find trace of their fate?”

Legolas shook his head, sadly. “There has been no word. And I guess, though he does not say, that even Celeborn cannot reach the Lady Galadriel through their bond, and it is this, and the knowledge of the terrible enemy they went against, that has all the Golden Wood full of fear and distrust.”

Overhead, the great mallorn trees themselves seemed to shiver and sway in a soundless mourning. The sky beyond them was clad in grey clouds, and a small shower of ancient leaves swirled downward.

Gimli sighed and rubbed his scarred wrist with his other hand. “I am sorry for it! How brave and gallant did she seem, though I saw her only for that moment!”

“We must have hope! Ancient and powerful and wise is Galadriel, and she has outlived and outfought great evils in past ages!” Legolas replied. He looked thoughtfully at the other. “Does that still pain you, the dark wizard’s work? May I look?”   

Gently he reached for the Dwarf’s arm. Gimli looked alarmed, but did not flinch away. As soon as the Elf’s bare hand touched the other’s skin, they both started. Legolas felt a wave of sensation wash through him: it was a delicate, calming feeling of connection, of—contentedness, all through him. It was strange, but far from displeasing. From the shocked look at Gimli’s face, it had been mutual.

“ _That_ ,” said Gimli, “was not what it felt like, when the others handled me. That Lord of yours, I mean, and our poor Gandalf. When they touched the mark, it felt ill and foul—”

“As if one were to be sick to one’s stomach, or the like! And it made me angry!  Yes, I felt it!’ said Legolas. “I thought it was the infection of Saruman’s magic, and because—-because I did not like to see them lay hands on you against your will, even meaning no wrong.”

He felt shy describing that strange sensation: the protectiveness he felt for his comrade, the something like _tenderness_. All of a sudden, he felt bare and exposed, and a memory rose up: the miserable circumstances of their meeting.  He crossed his arms over his chest protectively and turned away. He hoped it seemed as if it were in thought. When he ventured to look again at the dwarf, the other stood quietly, his hands at his sides, and was looking at him with those great dark eyes, tinged with sadness and with sympathy. 

“Listen, lad,” said Gimli, slowly. “About that— how those foul beasts handled you, when you were in their power— you must not let it shame you, nor fester in your heart. Will you trust us, that neither I nor any of my people will say aught to any, if you wish it not? But I would hear if you have found healing among your own people.” He stepped towards Legolas.

But Legolas moved away from him in his turn, though gently. “I do trust you. Who can be secret, if not Dwarves?” He had never felt more grave, in his heart, but he feigned a casual air. “As for the rest, Saruman is dead, and his legion. They misused my body, but they have paid for that with their lives. The bruises must mend themselves. I am an Elf, and we as easily outlive our injuries as we do you short-lived mortal beings.”

He saw shutters go up in Gimli’s eyes at those words.He had meant to put him off, speaking coolly of mortality: it worked only too well. The warm connection between them shivered and broke, and he was suddenly weary and cold. He would have given much to have the minutes back, and his words, too, and to take comfort in Gimli’s sympathy, as the other had wished to share it. He tried to make the best of it: he feigned as if it were his will to end their intimate moment of connection, though in his breast he felt a hollow sadness deepen.

 “Come! There are many questions that need answers, but we shall not find them lingering here. Let us return you to your camp!”

Gimli walked in silence with him, back the way they came. Before the encampment came in sight, he reached up and just touched Legolas on his hand, softly. In a few more yards, they rejoined the Lórien guards, whose seemed relieved to see them; several Dwarves were waiting with lowering brows and apparent suspicion just beyond. It was clear they had not liked their leader’s absence. Gimli’s face was set and unyielding once more. He walked back among his folk without a farewell.

That night when Legolas lingered among his kin in the moonlight, listening quietly to their songs, he found it difficult to sit still. Finally he silently left them and wandered the ancient glades, full of black shadows and silver moonlight. He sat down by the trunk of an enormous old oak to wander into reverie, and tried to journey back to the forests of his home in the North, his fingers trailing over the circle of gnarled old roots around him. Instead, he found his body sinking into true sleep, and when he surrendered to it, he fell into a dream.

He was walking the halls of his father’s palace in the Woodland Realm; he knew the curving, twining pillars and arches and the sound of its carven fountains; all was familiar and safe. Suddenly, he came upon a door that he had never seen before, decorated with strange runes, and set with red stones. He touched it, and it opened: beyond was a passageway of smooth stone, lit by silver lanterns. “Ah!” his mind said in the dream. “This leads under the Mountain!” And he went through it, and came to a warm room lit by a great fireplace; beside it sat Gimli, seemingly lost in thought. But he looked up as Legolas approached, and smiled. 

In the way of dreams, the other man was half clad, the firelight playing warmly on his bare pale skin, and yet it did not seem odd to Legolas. Instead, he felt a sensation of happiness, and went to him and sat beside him, and took him in his arms. “My dear!” he said in the dream, and kissed him, and ran his fingers through his rough red beard: he could feel the touch under his fingers, at once bristly and soft. Daring more, he set his thumb on Gimli’s bottom lip, and saw tenderness in that mouth and in his eyes and—-

 In the actual world, Legolas woke up. The forest was silent and cold and the dark blue sky just beginning to give way to dawn. His body, in his little nest in the tree roots, was aching with desire. “Oh, damn me,” he thought with quiet desperation. “Damn me for a fool.”

 

#


	5. Questioning

He made his way through Lórien’s glades, following Tauriel. Just above his head, a pair of birds chased one another, flitting from branch to branch; one called sweetly, and the other followed after. Their song was unknown to him;  once upon a time, in his youth long ago, he would have spent leisurely hours trailing in their wake, listening and learning their ways. But the long years had not been kind to the forest of his homeland. New living things no longer came to Mirkwood; or if they did, their joys soon ended. Here in Lórien, the peace and beauty of the woodland was yet preserved. But today he had no time to watch the tiny, fragile romance of the winged companions.

He wanted Tauriel’s counsel: she was wise, and had the strength to say that which others resisted hearing. And yet he told himself that what he sought was a way out of his dilemma.

That he could feel friendship and affection for one who had stood nobly at his side in battle, that was meet and fit. That his heart was touched with something like devotion to he who had shown gallant mercy to Legolas in his need: what more natural?

Though the man was a Khazâd, a soldier of a people long at odds with his kin and kingdom. Though their rulers and relatives looked on one another with loathing and suspicion. Still, all this could be mastered. 

But he must not—-his heart and his body must cease from—-he simply could not _want_ Gimli like that. Could not, and must not. 

Ahead he heard Tauriel’s voice, low, resonant, and bell-like. She was laughing. There had been a while when he fancied himself her admirer; he certainly had been jealous of her attention, of her confidence. But he had discovered (with a strange relief) that it was as a friend that he loved her. He treasured her battle-readiness and fierce grace, yet also her kindness and open heart, which lead her to act as friend to Thorin’s company in their need, when his father had commanded that the Elves turn away from all but their own affairs. And he was moved by the unsparing integrity that made her unpopular, once she lost Thranduil’s goodwill, and the game defiance with which she bore other people’s scorn.

Now he caught sight of Tauriel seated on the green turf of a riverbank and found her face half-unfamiliar, for she looked young, open, and beguiled. Kili was with her: in the midst of a running stream, the slender Dwarven noble leapt nimbly from stone to stone, his dark hair flying, telling some jest all the while. At last he sprang to the bank, and going to where she sat, he put his arms in her lap and looked up into her face, hopeful and undaunted. 

All the dark and painful events of recent months, the tensions and conflicts of the last days, seemed to sit lightly on the young archer. _He_ was not cast down. _He_ was not suspicious and resentful, Legolas thought, resentfully. _Oh, I will let her alone; I will leave them in peace_. He turned away.

He took himself far up the little rapid stream until he found a lonely pool, shaded by the trailing fingers of a great willow. He took off all his things and sat down in the water, which rose up to his chest. Sitting in the cold, clear water, he studied his own body. The bruises and cuts on his fair skin were half-healed, though still visible. The cut high up on his inner thigh was now a thin line of pink, dotted with scabs. His softened cock rested gently to one side, just stirred by the stream. In his memory, the orcs moved over him: holding him down, clawing, grabbing, making sounds of pleasure. The memory of Elves is perfect, losing no detail, no sensation, of one’s past: it is a precious gift; it is a heavy burden.  

He had always had a ready, light-hearted approach to desire, sharing himself in body with those of a like will, with no taste for tedious vows and commitments.  His stern father thought him unchaste, careless of his birth and of his future. Now his pleasant memories of past wanton moments were all stained and covered over with the foul slush of his hours in Moria: of compelled subjection, of helplessness and violation, stripped and splayed in the arms of his attackers as they cheered each other on in using him.

He could go to the wise among his people for help. In the terrible annals of Middle-earth, Elven healers had gained much sad skill in helping their kind manage  the burden of painful experience. But in his heart, he knew he would not ask for such aid; he would not disrobe himself for them, either in body or spirit. Instead he thought,  “I will never make love again. I will never want to. I shouldn’t. I won’t.”

 _Why then are you spending your hours in pursuit of he whom you think of as your rescuer?_ Said a bitter little voice inside him. _In fact, he rescued you from nothing. The damage was already done, ere you met him, as far as you are concerned. For the rest, he fought for his people. You were simply drawn along in his wake_. 

He found himself staring at his wrist, where the symbols left by the wizard’s knife were subsiding into pink and white scar, but giving no sign of fading away. He touched them with his fingers, and then, in a flood, the sensation of touching Gimli’s skin, the matching scars on his arm, washed over his senses: warm skin, the solid flesh beneath. Worse, he recalled the intangible sense of rightness, of connection. _No_ , he told himself, gritting his teeth, no, no and no!

#

  
“I have done all I can with the paltry bits I brought in my bag, Gimli,” said Nin. “The good food and drink and clean cloth these tall folk have brought us have helped. But there’s need of more supplies, if I’m to help our wounded do their best. Let me speak to the Elf people, there’s a good lad!”

The healer looked tired; her black hair was coming loose from her braid, and there were circles under her eyes. _The rest of us have bettered ourselves through rest_ , Gimli thought with a pang, _but she’s been sitting up all hours, still, with those who are mending_.

Vigg loomed behind her. “Too proud to beg their help, are we? What in the name of Mahal’s balls do we care what they think of us, anyway?”

“Why, my thanks for your diplomatic counsel, Vigg! As mine-chief, I’ll seek your help negotiating with Elves at about the same time you look for my opinion on sinking ore shafts!” Gimli knew he showed the exasperation he felt, and he found himself tugging on his beard in frustration. He waved the big miner’s next retort away. “Ah, to the dust with it. Your need is true, healer. Unwilling as I am to increase our debt to them by a tin penny piece, we must see what can be done.”

“Cannot friend Legolas speak for us? We know he bears us good will, and it seems you are no longer holding these Lórien Elves’ bad manners against him,” Nin said. Gimli looked at her with a scowl.

“We are not going to plead for favors, either from Thranduil’s son or any others!’

“Or you could do it your own stubborn way,” added Vigg, under her breath, “you will do anyway!" 

He stood, and with the others following, made his way to what had become the informal gate of their little compound. To his dismay, the Elves standing guard included one who’d been among the worst to him on the dark day of their arrival; a narrow, fox-faced fellow who’d hustled him about when he was bound, and spoken to him with scorn. 

With all the patience and reserve of manner he could summon, Gimli sought permission to speak to any healers in Celeborn’s court, to find if they were willing to lend their skills.

“Why, who among us do you imagine would willingly lay hands on the bodies of Naugrim?” The guard replied with cold hauteur. “If the world has fewer of you, that is no matter to us!”

Gimli clenched his fists at his side; his hand longed for a weapon, and his tongue for a retort. He thought he heard a muffled sound from Vigg behind him, as of one abruptly biting her tongue.

To his surprise, the second elf guard spoke up before he could reply. “This is not well-said!” he told his companion. “Lord Celeborn ordered us to guard them carefully. He did not instruct us to use them ill. I will carry your message, Master Dwarf, if you will be patient till the change of wardens.”

With this small hopeful sign, they had to content themselves.

 

#

So it was that on the next day, Nin the healer found herself on a hillside in the Elves’ forest, some distance from her people’s camp, in the company of a pair of willowy Lórien healers, searching carefully among the ferns and flowers on the forest floor. She was not entirely sure she could tell the two Elves apart from one another, the tall pale creatures, and she was certain she did not have their names correctly: all long and whispery like themselves. 

But to her surprise they were kindly, and curious as to her own doctoring methods. So she called them both _Mistress Elf_ , answered their questions as best she could, and thanked them eagerly when they shared their store of herbs and ointments and healing-chants; it seemed to do.  Soon she felt the relief of seeing her patients eased by their courteous care. 

When they invited her to join them in gathering fresh plants, she happily accepted. She was more used to trading for dried herbs in Dale or gathering them in an apothecary’s garden, then poking among the forest litter. But it was a pleasure to wander in the open air, to examine the growing things and find a few she knew; to learn, here, a new word, and there, an unfamiliar wildflower. Grief and anxious care she could put off for a few hours.

There came a moment when she found herself alone in a shadowy glade; she had stopped to rest her feet by a brook, and the Elven healers had wandered ahead some ways. She was not discontent, gazing up at the vast, impossibly high tops of the golden trees, and half-closing her eyes in a beam of sun that fell on her face and shoulders. “Why, I am growing like that lazy old cat who sits by the warm hearth in the healer’s hall!’ she thought; but she did not rise.

When she opened her eyes, she was surprised to find an unfamiliar Elven lady sharing the grove with her. The other was seated on the ground, with her knees drawn up in front of her. She was dressed all in white, and her face was very pale. Nin was no judge of Elvish countenance, but surely there was pain in it, and grief, and weariness.

“All right there, my dear?” she said gently.

The Lady opened her eyes: there was something rather eerie and frightening about them. Even as she looked, the pupils seemed to shift from ice blue to something dark— like a nighttime pool of water— and back again. The Dwarf was frightened; and yet she could not lose the sensation that the being before her was in pain. “Who are you?” said the Lady, in a deep voice.

“No one in particular,” said Nin. “Just a guest here, really. Well, you can see that for yourself, I suppose. Shall I call the folk of this place to help you? But first, take some water, won’t you? You look half ready to faint, Elf or no!”

And she went to the woman’s side, and held out the water flask she carried by her side. The pale lady took a long drink, and put a hand to her brow, as if in distraction. “What is your name, little healer?” she said at last. “How comes a woman of the Khazâd to Lothlórien?”

“Nin of Erebor, I am. A company of we Dwarves came fleeing a great danger, and took refuge. Gimli’s our leader, a noble of Durin’s House, and has got leave of the Lord Celeborn to shelter us here, till we can make our way safe home to the North. Mayhap you’re new-arrived yourself,  lady, if you haven’t heard of us. What might your name be, if I might ask?” It might be a good idea if she got this one to the Elven doctors, she thought; she still looked shaky and ill.

“I?” said the Lady, thoughtfully. “My name? I have had many. Nerwen, they called me in Aman from which I am exiled; and Artanis, when I led my people long ago across the Grinding Ice before the rising of the sun. Alatáriel, my husband named me when we met in another age of this world in the woods of Beleriand, now sunk beneath the sea. But here . . . _Galadriel,_ my Woodland Elves called me, and Lady of the Golden Wood. Yes—- Galadriel, that was my name. You may call me by that, for I suppose the time has come to take it up again.” She sighed.

“Yavanna’s holy teats!” Nin exclaimed, shocked.  All at once it came to her that this indeed was the mighty sorceress they had seen face Saruman, and go forth to bring down Durin’s Bane. And yet a second ago, she had appeared a frail, sickly thing: an ordinary body of this world, and about to keel over, at that.

At Nin’s words, Galadriel began to laugh. Her eyes cleared, and she seemed to see the Dwarrowdam fully for the first time. “Indeed!” she said gaily. “Let us ask for Yavanna’s blessing, and thank her for her aid, for she is a guardian of this Wood!’ 

“My apologies, Lady!” said Nin, abashed. “Excuse my rough tongue, I’ve been mending miners for too long. But why did I not recognize you, at first?”

Suddenly, Galadriel sprung to her feet, and held out her hand to the Dwarf, who took it, struck dumb with amazement. The great Lady appeared to be getting better by the moment; that was a relief. 

“I do not know for certain, Nin. Perhaps because I have more than one aspect, and so do not always appear the same to mortal eyes. Perhaps, because in some ways, I _am_ more than one person, for I am at once of Valinor and of the Hither Shores, as I am both Water and  Adamant!”

Once again, as she had in Moria, the Lady had an uncanny air of beholding not only the glade around them, but at some other, distant scene that only she could see.  “And just now, I am returned from a journey to a very dark place, so that my own mind wandered far away, and I struggled to take up my place again in this world of the living.”

“I can’t say I follow that, my Lady!” said Nin. “Shall we go and look up this Lord of yours, now? He and all your folk have been a great deal frightened for you and Tharkun, both!”

“Yes! And yes! And speaking of Tharkun, he should be near us now. Shall we look for him?”

And so Nin found herself wandering hand in hand through an enchanted ancient forest with a mighty Elven queen; wondering if this, indeed, were the strangest day of her life.

  
#

“Long time we fell!” Gandalf intoned. “Ever the creature of Morgoth struck at us, with his flame and his whips, and ever we hewed him!”

He and Galadriel stood before the throne of Celeborn, surrounded by the Elven court; messengers had brought Legolas and Tauriel, too, and Gimli and Kili to represent the Dwarven party. All leaned in breathlessly, astonished at what they heard.

The rich voice of the grey wizard carried on the tale. “But it was a battle of danger beyond telling. Down to the very foundations of the mountains we travelled, and our battle was not of sword alone, but of power, dark against light. We fought far under the living earth, where time is not counted.”

“Indeed,” Galadriel added, “It seems that while we fought our unending struggle, days and nights passed here in the living world of which you and I lost the reckoning, Olorin.” She went to Celeborn and took his hand. “To my sorrow, for brave and loving hearts sorrowed while they waited news of us.” Her husband gazed at her, with relief, admiration, and weariness mingled in his face. He seemed less the stately Lord of the Eldar, at that moment, and more a person: who loved and feared like others.

“A week, indeed, passed while you were away from us, my Lady!” he said. “The longest week I have lived in many a century!" 

“But in the end we triumphed. Durin’s Bane, the last of the terrible Balrogs of the First Age, is thrown down and utterly destroyed!” said Gandalf. “It was a near thing. There were moments when it seemed as if both of us might perish, as did many of the great heroes of the First Age, in the talons of the spirit of fire. But we were given the victory, and sent back— to complete our tasks, I think!”

He leaned upon his staff, and his great bushy eyebrows drew together; he drew himself up tall, and his words struck into his listeners’ very hearts.  “For these dark events— the betrayal of Saruman and the unleashing of Morgoth’s Flame— are but the opening skirmish of a far greater war. The War against the Great Enemy will soon be upon us! All the Free Peoples of Middle-earth must ready themselves!” 

All listening felt a tremble go through their hearts. 

“Well, that’s terribly cheerful!” whispered Kili. “Not much for savoring the victory of today, are they?”

“And if I take no time to savor victory, Kíli, son of Dis,” said Gandalf, suddenly turning in his direction, and clearly having heard every word. “It is because the hour is late, and the needs are many! We are met on the edge of a great tide of fate, not rendezvousing in a tavern in Bree! Little time have we for drinking ale and sitting over our pipes with fiddle and song!”

Kili looked abashed, and half retreated behind Gimli and Tauriel. But the wizard, perhaps, had a twinkle in his eye, for all his stern words. 

“And yet!” said the silvery voice of Galadriel, with a laugh.  “Little time is not _no_ time. Lady of this Wood I may be, but I am still an Elf: when shall I agree that there is not time enough for song? Let us take the coming evening and day as our feast, to rest from grief and fear, to refresh ourselves and strengthen our hearts. Perhaps our cakes and wine may take the place of ale and pipes, if these good Dwarrow will accept them.”

“Now, that’s what I’d call wisdom!’ said Kili, nodding cheerfully.

#

  
Feast they did. It seemed the Lady of the Golden Wood kept some memory of the times when there had still been warmer friendship among their peoples. For while Kili regaled them with a tale of Thorin’s visit to Rivendell and his Company moaning over their plates of green fare, the Lorien Elves brought to the board roast venison and woodcock, fat geese from the Anduin and fresh trout grilled with onions, along with the promised cakes, which were sweet with apples and honey. All ate well, and the wine flowed freely. 

Late in the evening, the Lord and Lady sent a steward to shepherd Gimli and Legolas into a little side pavilion, lit with candles, where Galadriel and Celeborn sat with Mithrandir. The steward poured a sweet golden wine from a shining pitcher, scented faintly of rain and pine, and then withdrew. Nearby the music of the feast went on playing in the great woven bowers under the trees, and laughter burst out in voices high and low, as glasses clinked merrily.

“I hope you are somewhat refreshed in body and heart!” said Galadriel. “For now we turn again to matters that concern us all, but may be woven with memories of sadness or fear. My lord told me what he learned from you on your arrival, about your binding by Saruman. But it was his hope that I or Gandalf might be able to discover more of its nature.” She reached out one long, slender hand and beckoned.

Beside him, Legolas felt Gimli go still, and saw his face fall. The Dwarf looked as if he steeled himself for pain, or for a distasteful surrender. in his mind’s eye, Legolas saw the flush of discomfort that had risen to Gimli’s face with each investigation of the wizard’s curse. But this time, the elf intervened before the others could touch his friend. 

“Wait!” said Legolas, “And we will show you.”  He knelt down by Gimli’s side, and slid the robe from his arm. Looking in Gimli’s eyes, he made a wordless plea. Slowly, the Dwarf rolled up his sleeve, and set his brawny arm alongside the Elf’s slender one.  At once, the rune markings on their skin took on a strange distinctness, and a sensation of refreshed strength and warm connection seemed to flow through Legolas’ nerves once more. He took Gimli’s strong, work-roughened hand in his, and clasped it. The feeling only grew in intensity. He heard an intake of breath from his friend.

“Well, well,” said Gandalf. “Very enlightening, I must say.”

“Indeed,” said Galadriel, in her musical voice. “Illuminating. How shocked our erstwhile friend Saruman must have been! The biter bit!”

“Lady?” said Gimli, in something near a growl. “If aught of this mystery may be made clear to us, I beg you speak more plainly!” _Oh_ , thought Legolas, _he is not so very reverent of her as all that_. It made him feel smug for some reason; though he was impatient, too, for better knowledge. 

“I beg your pardon, Gimli!” said Galadriel, and she gave him a softening smile. “Well then, to begin. Saruman thought that he had bound you with a chaos spell, or so I deem. But I recognize this magic: it was not created by Saruman. It is far older than he! Nor was it created by his new master, Sauron. If I am not mistaken, this is a lore that arose far in the East, among Men whose ancestors wandered there long before the First Age ended, and never served either the Master of Chains in Angband, or his corrupt apprentice. Indeed, it is not properly a dark magic at all, at least in its origin. Do you concur, Mithrandir?”

“Oh yes,” said Gandalf. “Let me see, let me see. It has been a long age since I wandered in those Eastern lands with my old comrades. But something of those peoples I recall. Long ago, the wise women of the Far Lands would set wards on certain places using runes of power, which would bring confusion and disorder on any who came unbidden to their sacred temples. When ensnared,  intruders found themselves poisoned in their wits, turning on one another as against foes, and all their blows against the guardians of the holy places would go astray!”

“Then how came Saruman by these powers?” Celeborn asked. “And what did he intend by using them on his prisoners?”

“How Saruman stole these spells and turned them to evil use, I cannot say,” Gandalf answered.  “I suspect he has put them to foul purpose before, perhaps among the Dunlanders and Easterlings he has seduced to his side. But I think we can guess something of what he plotted for our two friends.” He stole a minute to light his pipe. Legolas half-suspected him of pausing for greater effect in his story.

At last the Gray Wizard continued, puffing.  “When he discovered my ill-fated errand of rescue with Tauriel and Legolas, he knew that his veil of secrecy was broken. He saw that his treachery to the White Council would soon be known, whether in the Golden Wood, in Rivendell, in Thranduil’s realm, or that of the Dwarves. His mask as an ally of the Free Peoples was about to be lost for good!”

In the halls nearby, the sounds of merriment continued; faintly the deep voices of Dwarves mingled with the sweets tongues of the Elves, as if in counterpoint to the ills Saruman had intended.

“But he was close to obtaining his great prize by that time,” Gandalf went on. “The captured miners of the Lonely Mountains had nearly breached the Balrog’s prison, and he could do without them if he must.”

Gimli moved restlessly, and Legolas shuddered. It was clear that they shared the same thought: how close the White Wizard had been to sending all the Dwarven company to the same bloody fate as the hostages.

“Now the risk grew great that soon both Erebor and the Elves would march against him, possibly before his plans were ripe!  But Saruman might have played for time, if so. Already he had placed these marks on Gimli; probably he thought to use him as a pawn and a distraction. If he traded him back to Thorin as a hostage released, he could set loose treachery and disorder among the Dwarves. Or so he believed.”

Gimli turned his face away, with a half-suppressed exclamation of anger, and a clenched fist; Legolas placed a hand on his shoulder.

“But when Legolas fell into his hands, he had a better idea— that is, a worse and more evil one.  Setting the same spell upon the Prince, he threw him helpless and wounded among the Dwarves. Perhaps, under the influence of sorcery and ancient suspicion, the Dwarrow would attack the Elf. Perhaps, with his remaining strength, tormented and in pain, the Elf would slay the Dwarven lord. Perhaps they would both die.”

Wordlessly, Gimli placed his hand over that of Legolas, where it still rested on his shoulder. 

Galadriel took up the thread. Her face was full of sorrow, and some anger.  “In either event, he would have gained the perfect tool to set the oncoming hosts of the Elves and Dwarves against one another. Of course, his great aim was more ambitious: he hoped to acquire in Durin’s Bane a weapon that could destroy all of us. Mayhap he schemed in the end to turn against Mordor itself.” 

Gandalf let out a whuff of smoke and completed the Lady’s thought.

“But not for nothing was Saruman called the Cunning! He never underestimated the damage that turning his enemies against one another could do. What evil infection of rage and vengeance might spread among Dwarves and Elves, at the news that Thranduil’s son had been slain by a lord of Thorin’s house, or the reverse!”

The listeners shivered. “A foul treason, the cunning monster! But how came it to fail?” Gimli grated out the question. “For neither of us have any magic about us! Indeed, we were, if anything, weak and weary with abuse and imprisonment!”

Galadriel rose and paced, her white gown trailing.

“As it happens, the stolen magic of the Eastern wise women did not work as Saruman thought it did. It had no power to unleash hatred in hearts where ill intent had no root. Instead, out of your own good heart, Gimli, you began by giving aid and protection to Legolas in his need. In turn, Legolas of his own free will stood to fight beside the captured Dwarves. Each of you did so without hope of gain for yourselves.” 

They glanced at one another, Elf and Dwarf; but Legolas found he could not speak.

The Lady turned and smiled at them. “So it was that the rune-spell  went to work exactly as its creators intended: it threw forth its chaos power around _that which should be protected_. It  spun itself around you two who acted in mercy to each other and in self-sacrifice for others. Those who attacked you with violence and the whips of slavers became its targets, and you, the vessels!”

“But the final end of Saruman?” ventured Legolas.  “It was one thing for our hands in battle to gain this strange protection; but never have I seen such a thing as the sorcerer's fall!” 

“He attempted that which was far beyond his power,” said Galadriel, her face darkening,”and impious, as well. He called upon the Void in an act of unmaking! Had it worked, it would have destroyed us all, himself with it. A last, sick act of destruction, as he intended. But then you two stepped before him, clad only in the small protective magic of ancient villagers. The very spell that he had placed on you reacted in a simple way. His dark curse rebounded on himself!”

“Too clever by half, my old companion,” said Gandalf. He seemed angry and regretful at once. “And ever prone to toss too many balls in the air, and fail in the juggling!”

Away in one of the groves of Lórien, some of the Elves were strolling with a harp under the trees and starlight, and singing. They all listened to the strains of music for a while, without speaking.

“But Lady, and Mithrandir,” said Legolas at last. “You will forgive my curiosity, since it touches my friend and I so near. What of us? Is this magic done with, now its author is dead?”

“I, too, would feel safer,” said Celeborn, who had sad by listening, in quiet and deep thought. “If we did not have any person in this realm who walks with the mark of this wizardry on them, though it seems they bore it to good ends in this last battle.” He glanced with something like apology at Gimli. The Dwarf himself seemed sunk in thought.

Galadriel sighed. She knelt down by the two friends and took their hands, but was careful not to touch the rune scars.  “I am afraid I cannot say for certain. I do not think this magic can be entirely removed: not without injury to you both. It may be that the bond between you will soften and fade with time, as your return to your peoples and there is distance between you.”

Legolas felt his stomach drop a little, at that. Yet he supposed he should be glad to hear it: that the spell was not evil in its essence, and that it might wear away.

“Or,” Galadriel went on, her mysterious searching gaze passing over their faces, “you may find that you remain in some wise tied to one another, so that you can still wield a certain power in battle, if you are at one another’s side.  At a cost, perhaps. The more you use the power, the more the bond is renewed, until at last you may find that it pains you to be apart!”

They looked at each other, startled, and then at her. “Oh,” she said gently. “Are you there already?”

 

#


	6. Mending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one chapter is the real explicit one: turn back now if that's not your thing. But if it is, read on!

They had given Legolas a little lodge of his own to stay in, when the Lórien people noticed that he was restless at night and not at peace in his heart.  

Not all the dwellings in Caras Galadhon were telain built into the high trees. Across the centuries of Lothlórien’s existence, there had been many visitors who were not Woodland Elves: Círdan’a Sindar from the seaside Havens, Exiles of old Beleriand from Rivendell, a few Dunedain. Many of these felt most comfortable with solid walls and roof around them, so there were a sprinkling of small guest houses among the lantern-lit glades.

It was very late in the night, indeed getting on towards dawn, when Legolas and Gimli broke from the halls of feasting. With their Lady’s return, the defeat of the Balrog, and the new-sprung, tentative friendships between Dwarrow and Elf, the boundaries on the Erebor camp had softened away, and the Galadhrim treated the Khazad as guests now, no longer distrusted strangers. No one questioned the pair as they wandered away together.

Wordlessly, Legolas guided their steps to his door. When Gimli turned as if to leave, he said quietly, “It is very late. Will you come in? You can rest here, you know, till it’s light again.” And his friend hesitated, but nodded. 

He made up a little fire in his small hearth. In a few minutes, they were both stretched quietly before the fire, on the soft coverlets which he had left there. 

At last Gimli spoke, looking at the ceiling, and not at his friend.  “Well. Much of good and much of ill, all blended together, these strange adventures of ours.There is this comfort for you: if you are tied to me by this magic, it will not be for long, as your kind reckon it. It is better so, surely, that I am a _short-lived mortal_ , then that you should be unwillingly bound.” 

“Oh!” cried Legolas, in pain. “Please do not say so. I spoke stupidly, when I used such words, for I wished to hide away what I felt.” He felt almost as if he could weep, at the wretched feeling that fluttered in his breast. 

Gimli rolled on his side then, and took his hand: “Nay, you had every right to your feeling. Now it is I who am speaking all astray. It was petty of me to rankle at your words. Perhaps I did because . . .“ he hesitated. “Perhaps because, though I wish none of this had befallen either of us, I am not so regretful that it is I who am here with you. It would be better, easier, for you if it was one of your own people, caught in this fate with you. It is selfish for me to be glad that it is me, instead.  But it is so.”

“Gimli!” Legolas said softly. “Gimli! I would have it be no other.” And, though he had directly vowed to himself to do no such thing, he put his hand to his friend’s face. Stroked his cheek, touched the neat braids under his lip, ran a hand through his beard. And when he saw that Gimli’s eyes were alight with tenderness, he kissed him on the mouth. 

In a moment, gently, the other had his arm around him, warm and strong, and kissed him back: on his lips, his neck, his brow. It was very much as if his dream had come to him waking. He longed to do more. But all at once he paused, his hand trembling.

Gimli saw it: he drew back himself. There was a question in his face, but he lay quietly. Very gently, Legolas reached out again, and just touched the other man’s hair.

“I could go elsewhere, to sleep, if you like,” said Gimli, “Or,” seeing dismay on the Elf’s face, “Or stay, and rest here by your side and be still. I will not leave you, if you would have me here. But we need do nothing, only rest.” 

“But in my heart, I would do more. It is only—-” Legolas tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. “I wish that I had first met you in some other way, in some other place. That’s all.” 

Gimli looked at him with a speculative glance and said to him, slowly, in that deep, good voice of his: “And what—what would I have done, in this other place? This other time?”

Legolas sat up. He stared at Gimli, taking in his deep brown eyes, and dear, plain, whiskery face. He almost stopped to listen to the small sad voice whispering in his head, warning of misery and disappointment. But then he didn’t:.

“You would have kissed me, like this.” He took Gimli’s face in both his hands, pulled him in, kissed him fiercely, and stroked his cheek and his jaw.

“And then, friend? What would have happened, after?” Gimli whispered hoarsely, almost in his ear. He ran his hands through Legolas’ long hair, from the crown of his head to his neck and down his back.

“And you’d—you’d let me take off your clothes. And I would uncover myself, for you.” 

Gimli paused,  and put one hand the hem of Legolas’ fine linen shirt, toying with it. “Are you so certain, then?”

Legolas nodded, and said slowly: “I want to make a new memory: one with your face, one with your body in it. Not theirs.” That was the closest thing he could say about what had happened to him in the hands of their enemies.

And at that, Gimli nodded too, and he reached to Legolas and pulled off his shirt and jerkin and boots and trousers, and took off his own, too. When they were lying bare together, he said, “Now, onto your back with you, handsome lad.”

Legolas felt strange, lightheaded.  He whispered hoarsely,”Tell me—tell me that you’re going to hold me tight, and— _use_ me.”   _What is wrong with me?_ A voice inside his head said. _He will think me mad and foul, after all he knows or guesses of what happened_ —

Yet Gimli did not seem amazed at him, not shocked or put off. “Oh, aye, I will use you well.” He put his mouth near Legolas’ ear again, and said, low, “We shall do _just_ as you like, now, just as you like, my dear.” 

And as Legolas listened to his kindly voice,  there rose up something almost unbearable in his throat, in his chest. Putting his arms around him, he buried his face in Gimli’s broad shoulder. And they stilled together for a moment. 

Then the other man tipped him back where they lay, and murmured at him, caressing him with satisfaction. Gimli thumbed Legolas’ nipples and said, “Ah, you tender thing,” and pinched each of them, and he heard himself cry out. And it felt lovely, and good; dangerous and hot and a little dirty—yet safe, somehow, too. 

Gimli caressed his cock, which felt hot and eager in his tight grip, and Legolas whispered, urgent,  “I want you to, I want you to fuck me.” _Do you?_ The voice inside him said, threatening him with poisoned memories. “I do,” he said out loud. He could want things. It was alright to want things.

“We shall,” says Gimli, ”we shall do whatever you like, as we go. But let me take my time with this, eh? Look at this pretty thing. All pink, you are, and smooth.”  The other knelt between his legs: he had Legolas’ cock firmly in hand, and with his other hand, he pushed two fingers slowly into him. “Ah, I like to look at thy fair face, as I handle thee.”

Legolas could not see his own face, of course, but felt himself flush, at Gimli’s gaze, at the dirty, nice, warm things he was saying. The other was using his fingers in him, working him deeply, and he knew he was making noise, lascivious cries, and looking half-amazed at his own body, and at his friend, as he slid his strong, rough hand up his cock, ran a thumb over the tip, and slid his hand back down.

Lust rose higher in him, and he was pushing eagerly with his hips, impaling himself on the thick fingers fucking him, thrusting into the rough grip on his prick. He wanted it never to stop; he almost couldn’t stand it, and then, like something breaking, his body was giving way, all at once. And it must have shown in his face, for  then Gimli said, “Go on. Go on, then, and come for me.” Legolas did. He cried out, and broke apart, shivering, and spilled; it was both pleasure and pain. 

At once he was filled with an urgent need to _do it back_ , to _give it back_ , the unbearable, precious feeling. He pushed Gimli over, made him lie down in his turn, and before he could stop to doubt, he put his mouth on the other man’s cock. Took him deep, liking the slide of the thick, slick male part over his tongue, to the back of his throat. Liking the idea of serving it willingly. He kept running his hands over Gimli’s hips, his ass, back to his strong thighs. He knew he was making little moans of greed, but he didn’t care.

And Gimli was into it, _very, yes,_ thrusting now, he shouted something in his own language, not being too careful and cautious with him, thrusting and fucking into his mouth with satisfied grunts. He lasted and lasted, but Legolas didn’t mind, kept petting him and caressing him to let him know it was _all still good_.

At last, he pulled out of Legolas’ mouth with a satisfying, bawdy wet sound, and pulled him up for a kiss. And while they were kissing, he felt Gimli come, against his stomach, moaning into his mouth.The Dwarf looked down: “I’ve gone and made a filthy mess of us, now,” he said, rueful. “Yes,” Legolas said, contented.

All night, the rain beat down on the roof of their small shelter, knocking on the ancient wood with wet showers and threatening, willful gusts, but it could not get at them. Legolas thought at moments he could make out a voice, a low song within the rain, an indecipherable lyric just beyond his reach. The Dwarf sank into a deep sleep; the Elf lay against his back and listened to him breathe, his heartbeat.  He floated in reverie, eyes open, but he was no longer afraid of his own memories. He let them drift through his mind; forest glades in spring, with the deer bounding on ahead, long ago before any shadow came, countless tiny scrolling ferns unfolding on the forest floor.

In the morning, with the rain still beating down, Legolas made them some hot tea, crouching over the little hearth, and took it back to the bed. They lay side by slide, making companionable slurping noises. There was no honey, so the tea was bitter; but it was hot, while the world outside was drear and cold, so it was the best tea.   

He could feel his friend’s desire coming back, and this time, his own rose up with a bossy and demanding current to it.  He made Gimli put his half-finished cup aside, though the Dwarf made a comically protesting sound, which he smothered with a kiss. 

He smoothed slickness over Gimli’s fast-hardening cock, and then he moved over him, straddling, with a knee on either side, and sunk down.  And Gimli said, gasping, staring up at him with lust and awe: “ _You fucking beauty_ . You feel so good, your sweet hole, gods, looking at you, with my big cock in you, and you taking it so prettily, yes. I’m just going to have you and fuck you forever, now, _ugh_.”

Legolas smirked, for Gimli looked half-dazed with pleasure, half-dismayed at how fast and thoroughly he’s been had. 

After they had collapsed again together, Gimli said, “The magic be damned. You are a marvelous persuasive fellow, for an Elf.”

In his heart, Legolas thought, “But it is your your goodness that opened the door for me; your gentleness, all unexpected, that saved me,” but he could not quite put it into words, so he answered, “I suppose you are not so awful, for a Dwarf.” But he laid his head on his friend’s chest, as he said it. “I am becoming used to you, it seems.”

Later, he walked his friend back to his encampment. It was after the noon hour. They saw that the Lorien Elven guards and the Dwarven sentries were chatting together, as they approached; it seems a long journey to the gate, under their eyes. 

“See!” cried one of the Elves. “Look, they are not lost after all!” “Do you think they were gathering firewood in the forest, all the night? And all the morning too?” “Perhaps they were delving a mine: he is a Dwarf, after all!”

“Oh, they were delving, I suppose,” said Vigg, grinning. The other Dwarrow signed furiously in iglishmek at Gimli, who was blushing. “And yet they needed neither pick nor shovel, and they have spent their treasure already.”

 

#

A month had passed. 

One evening, after the Khazâd  told the Woodland Elves what they needed, Haldir and a few companions guided them to a quiet place in the forest. The bright full Moon shone above and his reflected face shone kindly in the dark pond. Pale birches, their white bark scored with ink black, gleamed around the water’s edge.

All the Dwarrow party had assembled, and in their arms they bore paper lanterns, to the number of they who had died in Moria. One by one, they lit them, and said the names of the lost, and gently set the lanterns floating upon the black water. When they went back to the Mountain, they would sit in mourning with the kin of the dead and carve their names into stone, over tombs that would stand forever empty.

For now, they prayed for them in their ancient tongue, and spoke of their deeds and their loves and their skills, and sang for them in deep voices that carried through the woods.

Legolas sat with Gimli, and Kili with Tauriel, and by now the other Dwarves did not seem too surprised at their presence.. They reached out and joined hands with one another, for they were tied together by the dark battle deep in Moria, by bloodshed and shared peril, as well as by the pair of strange romances between their kind.

But the Dwarves  were surprised to find that some of the Lorien Elves also gathered at the edge of the clearing and watched with quiet and respect. And when the Dwarves had finished their song, the Elves took up a mourning song of their own; and though the tongue was strange, the sympathy shone through.

**#**

 

“What will you be doing, when we get back to the Mountain? Will you find another expedition to sign on with?” said Vigg. She clenched her unlit pipe between her teeth, and plucked at the grass.

“Well,” said Nin with a sigh, “I’ve never been one to let the moss grow on me. Prefer to be on the road. But I’m not sure how long it’ll take me to shake off the the shivers from this venture. Brr!  The foul Orcs, and their whips, and seeing folks in pain without the means to help ‘em. I still wake up with dark dreams, some nights, and see their leering faces, and hear our people crying out.”

“Do you? Well, you should call on me then. I’ll come to your bedroll and put my arms around you and frighten all the spooks away!” said Vigg. 

They sat for a moment in quiet.

“Vigg, my dear,” said Nin, “Was that a pass you were making?” 

“Balls of Mahal!’ Vigg exploded. “It’s not my fault I’m shit at this! Give me a mine-shaft to drive, or a good vein of ore to get out, and I’m deft enough!”

“No, no. you’re fine, you’re fine!” said Nin, gently. “It’s just— you know I’m a widow, yes?” 

“Aye,” the other answered sullenly. “Don’t see why that means you have to be alone for the rest of your life.”

“Neither do I,” answered Nin.

“No?” 

“No. Why shan’t I share affection for the years I have left? And as for the Halls of the Dead, well, we’ll figure that out when we get there. I think _she_ ’d like you, actually, my wife that was.”

And the healer laid herself down on the soft grass so that her head rested in the lap of the big miner, who stroked her hair with a surprisingly gentle touch.

#

 

Not all the wounds that were suffered could be fully healed, nor made as if they never were.

One afternoon, Legolas drifted alone at the edge of Lothlorien, gazing from the forest’s edge at the snow-covered peaks of the Misty Mountains. His eye traced their mighty, untouched beauty, outlined against the sky, as he sought to lay a little stream of sorrow to rest, which he had awakened with that day.

Yet, all unwilling, his memories were dragged downward to the roots of the mountains, down, deeper and under, into the darkened halls beneath. In the present, he set his back against a great oak tree, his fingers clutching at the rough bark.

In the past, the face of Saruman floated before him, gaunt and pitiless, his dark eyes burning. Legolas felt again what it was to be helpless, bound, his limbs forced apart and cruelly pinioned, and the wizard was stalking towards him with a small sharp silver instrument in his hand, and now he was carving with his little blade into the tender flesh of the Elf’s wrist, and the warm blood was running down, and Saruman was chanting. Legolas heard his own voice, moaning, and worse, just beyond his vision, he knew the Orcs were there, jeering, growling, cursing, and that he was to be put into their arms—

In the present again, amid the groves of Lorien, he broke and fled through the forest like a deer, not stopping till he reached his little guest lodge under the great mallorns. Its windows were dark. Twilight was falling all around, the last red gleams just visible along the aisles of great soaring tree trunks. He went inside, and lay down by the hearth, but he lit no fire.  He only wrapped his arms to his chest, and drew his knees up; gritting his teeth, he tried not to weep.

Sometime later— it was difficult to tell how time had passed— he was aware that Gimli was there. He had not heard or seen him come in, but now the other knelt beside him. With deft touch, the Dwarf made a fire in the hearth. He went and got the covers off the bed, and lay down beside Legolas, and wrapped them around the two of them. He did not insist on questions, nor seek to make him bare his hurts; but he stayed with him, and that was enough.


	7. Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a heavily-armed loose end must be dealt with. Can tentative new bonds endure the challenge?

A messenger had set out for the Lonely Mountain some weeks before, at the time when Celeborn’s first, grudging acceptance had been given to the Dwarves; when they had been granted only a guarded refuge that was not precisely imprisonment, but also was not freedom.

The messenger came back more swiftly than anyone expected.

And with him came the host of Erebor, a great army of the Dwarves, grim-faced, all clad in heavy chainmail hauberks and gleaming shields, with their keen weapons on their back. Overhead flew the banners of Durin and of the King Under the Mountain, the anvil and stars of their ancient House, and the Raven Crown of the Lonely Mountain. Wordless they marched; they sounded no flourishing trumpets and blew no horns. Only the heavy tread of their iron-shod boots gave warning of their approach.

Such an army, within living memory, had laid waste to vast hordes of Orcs at Azanulbizar and at Five Armies. And just as Dain of the Iron Hills had shocked King Thranduil with his resolute swift march to the aid of Thorin at Erebor, so the Elves of Lorien awoke at dawn to the warning cries of scouts and found Thorin Oakenshield was within a few miles of their realm before they were ware. 

Quickly they gathered at the edge of Lothlorien, both Elves and the former captive Dwarves; Mithrandir, too.

By his side, Gimli muttered to Kili, “Come in person, and brought an army! Of course he has, our fierce lord! Now if only we can get him to stop and listen—!”

“Well, it’s Uncle, you know— and a kingdom of armed Elves— and everything that’s happened with Saruman and the Balrog— no doubt he’s prepared to listen to reason,” Kili said. His eyes opened wide as he heard himself, and his hand went to his scanty little beard and tugged. “Oh, Mahal’s balls!”

The face of Celeborn was grave, and even serene Galadriel looked troubled. No wise leader, Legolas thought, would be careless of so fierce an army at their doors.

Thorin rode at their head, and Legolas recognized Prince Fili at his side, fair and golden-haired, and grim Dwalin, the hulking, tattooed chief of his warriors, and fiery Lord Dain of the Iron Hills. Oh! _Among the dead in Moria had been the revered old Balin, King’s counselor, and brother to his general,  poor soul! That, and so much other sorrowful news must Gimli have written to them!_ Legolas felt a pang of sorrow in his breast.  _Their mood will be dark_.

In the midst of the Dwarven King’s party, Celeborn’s messenger rode; the unfortunate Elf looked chagrined, for he was hemmed about with armed Dwarrow guards. “My Lord!” he cried angrily, “The Naugrim would not let me return freely to you!”

“I made this Elf my _guest_ ,” said Thorin, his face stony. “In much the same way you have my people. We met your rider on the road, for our host had already set forth to bring our wrath upon Saruman. Joyful were we to hear of the deliverance of our captive expedition. Not so happy, to hear how you have treated them. You will release them to come freely to me, and there will be an accounting for any hurts they have suffered at your hands.” There was a terrific clash as the host of Erebor presented arms.

At a signal, every Elven soldier of Lorien also took their swords and spears in their hands, and their strung bows were ready to their grasp. They looked towards Celeborn and Galadriel; some looked angry, but others dismayed or uncertain. Legolas felt a sickening, almost despairing sense of history repeating itself. _Will we never cease from this? Just such a confrontation did foul Saruman seek to trip off. How easily do we aid our enemies with our hatreds!_

“Thorin Oakenshield!” said Gandalf, stepping forward. “There is no need for so war-like an approach! Your people are all safe, quite safe and well, as you will find. There were— misunderstandings at first, but you will find your people have been enjoying the hospitality of this kingdom, if you will but take the time to speak with them.” 

“I know about the _hospitality_ of Elves to Dwarves,” said Thorin, his face bitter and sad.  “It is offered by throwing starving travelers into prison, and claiming gratitude for the bread pushed through the bars! By aiming an arrow at our throats, and demanding treasure in return for not committing murder upon us!” 

The Galadhrim were murmuring now, even those who had been friendly to Gimli and his folk; _they know not the history of which Thorin speaks, and only hear the hardness of his words, the lack of courtesy to their own leaders_. _They are remembering all the suspicions they have been raised with, the prejudices against Dwarves that have persisted for centuries_ ,  Legolas said to himself.  _A few weeks of fragile friendship may not stem the tide of the past._

Before he could overthink it, he flung himself forward, between the two opposed lines, and made his way swiftly before Thorin. Then he stopped, and knelt down in the dirt. Some of the Elves behind him cried out in protest at this bending. There were Dwarven lances pointed in his direction, too, but Thorin threw up a hand, and they stilled.

“King Under the Mountain, my father wronged you all those years ago, in the re-taking of Erebor. He thought to protect our own people. Yet he did not act justly towards yours,” Legolas bowed his head. “And even now he is mistrustful and draws back. But side by side I fought with your kin in Moria against Saruman’s bondage, and learned of their honor and courage. Will you not pause and let us make peace, so that we may continue as allies against the greater dangers that threaten us all?”

When he  ventured to glance at Thorin’s face, he saw that there was some softening there. He had a noble countenance, did Thorin, brave and fine, but cruel suffering had burdened him with suspicion and reserve. With a start, Legolas realized the parallel to Celeborn of Lorien.

“You, Thranduillon, I do not condemn. I have heard of your service to our people in captivity, and to my cousin Gimli, their leader. You and likewise your Captain Tauriel, friend to my nephew. I must believe there are one pair among your people less heartless and dishonorable than the rest.”

But his look darkened, and his hands tightened on the reins of his steed as he gave a cold look at the assembled ranks of Elves.  “So much the worse that these haughty people of Lorien threw Gimli into bonds and kept my folk under guard, as I am told, when they knew you had fought side by side against the evil wizard.”

Now Gimli, too, came forward, and Kili with him. Kili went to his uncle’s side, and gently put his hand on his leg, and smiled up at him. But Gimli went to the side of Legolas and placed a hand on his elbow.

“Why, Thorin our King, my heart is full of gratitude that you have flown to our side in succor.” Gimli said. “Indeed, when first we came to these woods, our welcome was cold, for we came as strangers and terrible danger pursued us. But since then there has been time to better understand each other, and the folk of the Golden Wood have held out friendship to us and become our kindly hosts.”

Gimli’s cheerful mein, the warm emotion in his voice, did as much work on Thorin as the words themselves. The King’s hands minutely relaxed on his bridle; there was perhaps a little less anger in the set of his shoulders. Behind them, the other Dwarves of Gimli’s party were murmuring assent, and waving to those they knew in Erebor’s lines. 

“They really did treat us well, Uncle,” said Kili, “After a stiff beginning. “ 

“If it please you, my lord!” Gimli said. “Grave counsel would I have with you about these events, and worse dangers that may come after, and the Lord and Lady here have wisdom to share, if you will hear it.” 

“Counsel from the Elves? When have they have ever been willing to share their power or their wisdom with Dwarves? Where was their counsel when the Enemy in Dol Guldur sent his spies against my father, when we fought alone against Azog and his horde at Azanulbizar, when Saruman plotted against us?” Thorin growled the words, and Dwalin and the other Erebor officers nodded, their faces still wary.

“Great have been the sorrows of the House of Durin. Bitter misfortunes have you endured, Thorin Oakenshield.” It was the rich voice of Galadriel which spoke. “The Dark Lord, our enemy, has pursued your house with cruel persecution and foul deeds because you would not bend to his will. And you have borne this burden too much alone. Though you had some help from my old friend Mithrandir, and from Lord Elrond, yet it was little enough. This would I change.” 

The Lady of Lorien advanced slowly toward him, her white robes flowing, till she came to stand by the King Under the Mountain on his small, sturdy horse. Thorin looked at her in amazement and confusion. The other Dwarves, dumbfounded, fell back. Calmly she stroked the nose of his pony, and it gave a gentle whicker. Then she reached up her hand to Thorin. And he, with a look as if he surprised himself with his motion, took it.

“In the days of Durin, there was friendship between the great city of Khazad-dum and my people. There did I walk among the silver lamps and the endless ringing forges, and see the mountain tops above the great Dwarrowdelf reflected in the still pool of Kibil-nala. Then did I stand before the Durin of that day on his shining throne, as we made league against Sauron. I would have alliance between Elf and Khazâd once again, if we can build  it. And more than that. I would have friendship.” She smiled gravely at him as she spoke.

Thorin bent his head in silence over her hand, and did not release it.  There was emotion in his grim face, and possibly even wetness in his eyes. At last he said, “Lady, you are a stranger to me— ”

“Galadriel, the Lady of Lothlorien, and Celeborn is the Lord!” Gimli whispered in haste. 

“I am unused to kindness from Elven monarchs, Lady Galadriel, or to gracious words. And I would have said, before I met you, that the memories of friendships centuries old and long discarded were of little worth. But you speak in sympathy to my house, and recall lost glories before our exile and I—- I would listen to you, if you wish to speak more— of better ties between our kinds.” 

“Then be welcome to Lothlorien, Thorin Oakenshield, Heir of Durin, and welcome be your host! Come now, and meet the Lord of Lorien!”

And Galadriel beckoned to her people, and things began to arrange themselves. Legolas saw Celeborn, with a stunned look upon his face, being introduced to Oakenshield, who seemed likewise almost bewildered, though in a dignified, majestic, Thorin-ish manner. 

“That,” said Kili,”was not what I expected to happen.”

“Why, see how easy your uncle’s heart is softened, Kíli!” said Tauriel, almost put out, but half-laughing. “What an awful lot of trouble you and I have been giving ourselves, dodging about in secret!”

“Quite surprising, really!” said Gandalf, taking a puff on his pipe, “I’d no idea, or I would have tried to have them meet decades ago. She almost makes up for your father, Legolas!” 

“It seems to have gone off well without you interfering, Mithrandir,” said Legolas, somewhat cheekily. “Shall wonders never cease!” 

“Aye, but we haven’t told the poor fellow about Saruman’s spell, and the _thing_ between us two,” said Gimli, with a sigh. “There’s still plenty of time for things to go wrong again.”

“ _What_ thing between you, cuz?” said Prince Fili. “Wait, like Kili and Lady Tauriel? You and the _Prince of Mirkwood_? What moon madness is afflicting this family!” But he laughed as he said it, and jumped down from his steed to  embrace his brother and cousin. And he bowed gallantly to Tauriel.

“What’s this now? Mahal’s great hammer, you’re surely not—- _cleaving_ to the son of that cursed wretch Thranduil! Gimli, lad!” Dwalin was all but sputtering with rage. “We’ve spent the last half year worrying for all your lives, and you’re to bring home— this!” 

“ _Won’t_ my father be pleased!” said Gimli, covering his face with one hand, but laughing.

“Oi! Woodland sprite!” Lord Dain, his grizzled red and white beard bristling, rode his snuffling battle-boar almost up to Legolas, and pointed at him.

“My Lord of the Iron Hills?” said Legolas, politely.

Dain smirked. “I’ve a diamond big as an egg that’s yours, if you’ll set me where I can watch you tell Thranduil the news!”

#


	8. Notes

**About timeline and characterization:**

In this AU (obviously, if you have begun to read the story), Thorin and Fíli and Kíli live, and elements of the films are mixed with those of the books.

Some variation of the expedition to Moria happens, but with a different cast and totally different backdrop of events. The Ring plot and Bilbo and Aragorn and others are SOMEWHERE in this world, but don’t enter into this part of the tale. The big war with Sauron is still coming….

I am fudging many timelines, of course, trying to stay true to character more than calendars. In canon, for example, Kíli is young and brash and romantic in personality (Jackson films), while Gimli is confident and well-travelled, and a sturdier, more mature, rather knightly figure (bookverse). So they still are like that here. In the novels, you might recall that Gimli was only a few years younger than Kíli, and was away on a journey at the time of the quest for Erebor (not a child — despite the amusing locket scene with Glóin in the movie).

Since Kíli ought to be a little older than Gimli, you can take it either that they were born in slightly different years in this AU than in the original, or that Gimli is simply more mature by nature!

Also, in this story Gimli is the expedition leader because he’s good at such pragmatic work (see founding Aglarond in the books), while Kíli came along as a sort of royal observer.

 

**On a more serious note: about noncon, elves, and Tolkien:**

So this story had somewhat of a strange origin in my meta-thinking about the Tolkienverse (as well as, ok, my love for the power of hurt/comfort).

If you have focused your reading on Tolkien's published works, which do not depict explicit sexual experience, you will search in vain for reference to rape/sexual assault. But in a posthumous fragment ( _Laws and Customs of the Eldar,_ part of _The History of Middle-earth_ ), it is declared that Elves cannot be raped, because in the case of such an assault, they would release their souls from their bodies to flee to Mandos (eg, die).

I've always been interested in Tolkien's own device of presenting his works not as "what happened" but as an *account,* a story written by authors who live within the fictional history, in which stories are shaped by what the narrator knows, and change still more as they get retold, re-copied and edited by later people. One of his fascinating tools is to cast many passages in the form of “as x people tell it,” or “this people have a story about y, but that’s because they don’t know the real history, and truth has passed into legend,” hinting at the power of memory, rumor, superstition, and belief in shaping what people think is true.

Specific to sexuality, and to assault: the idea that "our people can't be raped" doesn't sound very plausible for any beings that have bodies. And again and again in the canon, we have passages that speak of captivity and “torment”: like those of Celebrian, Maedhros, Celebrimbor and the thousand nameless thralls of Morgoth and Sauron. What that torment consists of is not enumerated: but it’s hard to imagine that it wouldn’t include one of the most basic and profound forms of violation.

But such a belief ("this can't happen to us")   _does_ sound very much like the sort of thing a people tells itself to soften or disguise the unbearable. In this telling, the denial that such a thing could befall the Eldar is a sort of superstition: something that people say of the Elves,  which is sometimes repeated as wishful thinking by their own kind: but not the truth.

And in a different way, outside of the story, I think I’m uncomfortable with a— perhaps subconscious—implication in the original essay that death would be preferable to surviving sexual assault. It would be a mistake to apply too literally the mythos of a fictional world in which elves live for millenia, wield powerful magic, fight near-omnipotent Dark Lords, are reincarnated, and etc. Yet seeing that fic allows us to explore concepts that lie well outside the margins of canon, I prefer to imagine a version of events where this fom of suffering exists—AND its victims can survive, and recover, and choose what they wish to experience in its wake.

**Author's Note:**

> I ended up with a few rather lengthy notes on this story, so they’re put into the form of a final chapter for ease of reading.
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